Last Chance Llama Ranch

by Hilary Fields

  The women all looked at one another, and for a moment Merry’s stomach clenched. They don’t look pleased, she thought.

  “Hon,” said Dolly. “We’re all glad of the publicity, and we’ll take you up on it for sure. But you need to know…you don’t have to do anything to be welcome here. Just relax. Take a load off. You’re off the clock—hell, we all are. So hush with all that ‘earning your keep’ crap, will ya? We’re trying to have fun.”

  Merry’s eyes got a little misty. “Okay…yeah, okay, thanks, Dolly. Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

  “Shut up and stitch, woman,” Jane advised. She handed Merry a set of perfect chain stitches and a hook.

  Bob wafted by just then with a pitcher of margaritas in one hand. “Ready for another round, ladies?”

  “Need you ask?” Randi drawled. She slugged the remainder of her glass down and held it up for a refill. The others—including Merry—took libations gratefully from their host. At last Bob and the pitcher came round to Dolly.

  “Doll, care for a tot?” Bob asked.

  Dolly sniffed. “It’s Mrs. Cassidy to you. And no, thank you. I don’t accept drinks from deceitful, two-faced llama fobber-off-ers.”

  Merry saw Bob wince, but he quickly pasted on a smile. “True forgiveness is when you can say, ‘thank you for that experience.’”

  “Whoever said that never had to feed sixteen hungry ruminants!”

  “I believe it was Oprah Winfrey,” Bob said mildly.

  “Well, Oprah has enough staff to care for half the llamas in Peru,” Dolly snapped. “Sam and me have to look after ours ourselves. Not that you give a damn.”

  Bob’s air of Zen cracked again. “You’re really still holding that against me, Dolls? Can’t you forgive me? It’s been near eight years.”

  “‘Everyone thinks forgiveness is a lovely idea until he has something to forgive,’” snapped Dolly. “Or so C. S. Lewis tells me.”

  “‘Always forgive your enemies; nothing annoys them so much,’” Merry put in.

  “And what genius said that?” Dolly wanted to know.

  “Pretty sure it was Oscar Wilde.”

  “Well, alright then.” Dolly subsided back in her chair, swiped Jane’s margarita glass before the vet could protest, and held it up for Bob to pour. “I always was partial to his books. I’ve got a cria named Dorian Gray. And I am a mite parched, so I’ll take a margarita. But that doesn’t mean I want you in my sewing circle, Bob Henderson!”

  “Desolate as I am to hear that, Dolly, I’m afraid tonight’s festivities preclude my enjoying the pleasure of your company in any case. I’ve got emcee duties, and thirsty customers too.” He hefted his pitcher. “I’ll leave you ladies to your needlework. Next time, however, I intend to work on that new sampler!”

  * * *

  And so I was introduced to the world of women who have mastered the abstruse art of making string into…things. As we sucked back several spectacular margaritas and enjoyed the acts on the stage (more about these in a moment), I watched baby blankets, socks, hats, and even something Sage referred to as “dystopian knitwear” spring from the fingers of these talented ladies.

  Me? Well, I actually managed quite a decent set of stitches, which one might charitably call straight. But I was far more interested in the goings-on around me than I was in learning a new life skill. For the folks here in Aguas Milagros have any number of odd and intriguing talents, and they’re not shy about showing them off.

  * * *

  The yodeler had been followed by an aspiring snake handler—quickly ushered offstage by Bob with the help of a couple of local cowboys—and a blood-stirring flamenco number by a dapper Spaniard named Federico Rios y Valles. Now Steve and Mazel rose to the occasion, waving for silence.

  “This oughta be good,” Jane whispered in Merry’s ear. Several rounds of excellent margaritas had blurred the edges off her consonants and added a mischievous tinge to her already cheerful voice. “They always come up with something spectacular.”

  “Really?” Merry set aside her stitchery and reached for her smartphone, which was already filling up with candid shots of the night. Her Twitter feed was awash with commentary and retweets of her photos and blow-by-blow commentary under the hashtag #DontDoWhatIDid, and she could hardly keep up with her followers. “Spectacularly good, or spectacularly awful?”

  “Depends on your point of view,” Sage said, overhearing them. “Personally, I’m a fan, but then, I’m all about the drama.”

  “Shhh!” Rebecca said. “It’s about to start.”

  Merry turned her eyes to the stage.

  Mazel, with great dignity, was unbinding her braids. She shook them out into knee-length ripples of gray cascading down the back of the flowy white goddess dress she’d worn to the event. She ascended to the creaky little platform with deliberate steps. She inhaled deeply, waiting for the crowd to hush.

  “Stronger than lover’s love is lover’s hate. Incurable, in each, the wounds they make,” intoned Mazel, henna-adorned arm upraised to the gods.

  “That’s Euripides,” Merry murmured. “I’m sure of it!”

  “You know it?” Jane raised a brow.

  “Yeah, it’s from Medea. I studied it in…well, during one of my boarding school adventures. Always loved the Greeks.”

  And then Steve joined her.

  In a sheet.

  “Escape, O woman, your ungoverned tongue!” Steve struck a pose that threatened to send his improvised toga to Tartarus.

  Merry’s eyes widened as the hippies launched into the famous scene where Medea harangues Jason for spurning her. Mazel railed, wept, rent her hair and her blouse. Steve, as the unfaithful Jason, pleaded for understanding, then turned sullen, prideful, and at last angry. Spittle flew from impassioned lips. Breasts were beaten, gods called down to witness vengeful vows. The bedsheet flapped, swished, and flashed glimpses of Steve’s nether regions. The crowd was riveted.

  “But nothing good can please thee,” Steve railed, in his guise as the beleaguered hero. “In sheer savageness of mood thou drivest from thee every friend. Wherefore I warrant thee, thy pains shall be the more!” With regretful backward looks, he hitched up his bedsheet and trudged off the stage, disappearing in the direction of Bob’s restrooms, where presumably he’d hop back into his regular hemp attire.

  Mazel stood alone in the spotlight. “Go,” she thundered after her husband. “Thou art weary for the new delight thou wooest, so long tarrying out of sight of her sweet chamber. Go, fulfill thy pride, O bridegroom! For it may be, such a bride shall wait thee—yea, God heareth me in this—as thine own heart shall sicken ere it kiss!”

  She let the promise of vengeance hover in the air of the overcrowded café, in which a pin drop could now have been heard. Then Mazel’s withered lips broke into a grin, and she curled her fingers in front of her face in the unmistakable gesture of drama majors everywhere. “Annnnnd—scene!” she cried.

  Bob led the uproarious applause that followed, sweeping up to the stage to usher her off with a bouquet of wildflowers that she accepted with a diva’s grace. Merry noted no few people swiping tears from their eyes before calling for fresh drinks from the bar. Feliciana and her husband ’Nesto were swamped with orders, sweat beading on their brows as they served up beers, shots, and platters of nachos for the café’s hungry patrons.

  “And now for something completely different,” Bob said with a smile when the clapping had died back. “Before their bedtimes roll around, we’ve got a couple young folks who’d like to do a number dedicated to our own honored guest, Merry Manning!”

  Bob called for the lights to be dimmed. Merry looked around the café, wondering what in the world…

  And Destiny’s Child strode out onto the stage.

  * * *

  Few things, in my experience, can top the sheer contagiousness of a pop empowerment anthem. When it’s sung by a purple-haired, pint-sized Beyoncé and four blinged-out backup dancers, there’s truly nothing to compare. For five
of the funnest minutes of my life, I watched as Sam’s Survivors—with the aid of someone’s old boom box and a lot of cheering from the crowd—performed a truly spectacular rendition of a song that could not be more apt.

  “I’m a survivor. I’m not gon’ give up! I’m not gon’ stop…”

  Well, you know the tune. I think I’ll let this little video I took speak for itself.

  * * *

  When the kids wound down, sweaty and exultant from their exuberant performance, there wasn’t a booty left unshaken—or in a seat. Dolly, Jane, and the whole horde of hookers were all up and clapping. Everyone from cowboys to kitchen staff was woo-hooing and giving thumbs-ups. Even Steve had managed to wrestle free of his toga and was applauding from his place beside his woman.

  Merry finished snapping pics and whistled through her teeth. “Rock on, dudes!” she yelled. “You nailed it!”

  Thad bowed like a born showman, arm around Zelda. Mikey and Beebs mussed Joey’s sweaty hair and bowed as well. But it was Zelda who took the mic. “Thanks, everybody! And thanks, Miss Manning for what you did for us. We really appreciate it.” The other kids nodded.

  What did I do for them? Merry wondered. She looked at Jane and Dolly in puzzlement, but they just shrugged. Merry blew them a kiss, and they waved happily and clambered down from the stage. Merry saw Bernardo and Mikey being taken under the wings of their parents and ushered out into the parking lot. Thad, meanwhile, hooked his arm around Joey’s neck and noogied him fondly as they headed back for their booth, Zelda following with a fresh round of soft drinks.

  Speaking of which…Merry had had quite a few beverages herself. She excused herself and headed for the lav.

  * * *

  Zel caught up with her before she could get there. “Seriously, it meant a lot to the boys,” she said, beaming up at Merry. “I couldn’t have done it without hurting their pride, but this way they get what they needed without all that weirdness. Joey especially. This is going to do him a lot of good.” She raised up on tiptoe and pecked Merry on one very surprised cheek before skipping off into the crowd.

  “What will?” Merry called after her, but Zel was just a ponytail disappearing into the throng.

  Alrighty then, she thought. I’ll sort that one out later. Right now, I gotta pee.

  When Merry pushed the door of the stall open a few moments later after seeing to her business, she got whacked in the face.

  With the blues.

  The guitar sang, it wept, it scraped the bottom of the Mississippi delta and came up for air carrying with it the souls of generations of master bluesmen. Just a guitar, no vocals, but it spoke to her all the same, cutting through her buzz and tugging at something central to the core of her being. Merry stood stock-still for a moment, just listening, until the person behind her in line for the bathroom nudged her gently into motion. She smiled an apology, shaking her head to clear it of the spell. As she washed up in the communal trough-style sink outside the loos, Merry encountered Dolly. “Whoever that is playing is frickin’ amazing,” she marveled, flapping her hands dry. She thought recognized an old John Lee Hooker tune, but while the music came clearly to her ears, it was impossible to see from here who was performing on the stage.

  Dolly beamed. “He is, isn’t he?” Dolly ushered her back toward their seats, and Merry’s gaze followed the soulful music to its source.

  It was Sam Cassidy. Of course it was.

  He sat alone at the center of the stage, perched on a stool with one leg dangling, the other propped on a rung to keep his guitar braced upon his knee. His head was bowed, ear to the belly of the instrument as if it were whispering secrets to him. His hair had been scraped back into what was, for him, a neat braid, and he’d switched out his customary overalls for a pair of well-worn jeans and a whisper-soft white cotton button-down that wrapped lovingly round his muscular torso. His feet were, as ever, bare.

  Not bad, Sam. Not bad at all. Merry surreptitiously snapped a photo with her phone, thinking that with the soft lighting and his head down like that, her readers would see the “Studly Sam” she’d been telling them about all this time. And maybe he wasn’t so bad looking in truth, she admitted. She already knew he had a killer bod beneath the unflattering clothes he favored. And his face, plain as it was, was beginning to grow on her.

  Fungus grows on you too, Merry told herself. They make medications for that.

  The crowd had quieted, seduced by the music. Couples kissed, singles stared wistfully into their beers. Merry found herself drifting into a reverie that was half margarita, half melancholy as she watched Sam’s fingers pluck the strings with unerring skill. What else might he strum so well? she wondered. The hookers had all stopped stitching, she noticed, and several had similarly faraway looks in their eyes. Merry smiled, thinking Sam had quite a coterie of female fans. A man of many talents indeed, she thought. She leaned her head against Jane’s shoulder, feeling warm and fuzzy, and remarkably content.

  I like it here, she thought. I like these people.

  I like Sam.

  Oh, shit.

  Merry grabbed the nearest margarita and guzzled. Then she grabbed another one and chased it down.

  We do not need to be reenacting Shrek, New Mexico–style, she told herself. Especially considering we’re both the ogres, and I don’t think I’ll be changing into a princess anytime soon. Still, she couldn’t help watching how completely present Sam seemed as he spoke to the guitar, and made it speak for him. Here was a man with no pretense, no bullshit, and who would accept none from the people in his life. He could be fierce. Abrasive. Totally off-putting, as she had good cause to know. But he was alive and unafraid in a way Merry herself could only wish to be. The way she’d once thought she was, when she competed, but now realized she’d never really managed. She’d used competition as a way to gain acceptance. But no matter how many medals she’d won, she’d never really accepted herself.

  This man has, Merry thought.

  Face intent, almost tender, Sam wrung the last notes of the song from the instrument. There was a communal sigh, and a respectful silence, but he didn’t stick around for the applause that followed it. He slipped offstage and over to the bar with barely a nod of his head to acknowledge the whistles and cheers. Aguas Milagros seemed to understand his need to keep a low profile, and the crowd went back to eating, drinking, and making merry without much fuss.

  Except, now they were making a fuss over Merry.

  “Mer-RY! Mer-RY! Mer-RY!”

  “Um, why are people chanting my name?” Merry asked Jane. Her head was snuggled against the vet’s shoulder. Jane smelled like lavender and liniment, and the sister she’d never had.

  “’Cause it’s your turn, lushy girl.” Jane patted Merry’s hair fondly.

  “Turn to do what?” Merry wanted to know.

  “To get up on that stage and wow us with your hidden talents, of course.”

  Merry blinked owlishly. “But I don’t have any hidden talents,” she protested. “I don’t even have any obvious talents. Not anymore, anyway.” Suddenly her good humor took a margarita-fueled dive.

  “Oh, please,” Randi scoffed. “Everybody can do something.”

  “Yeah, like, I can tie a cherry stem in a knot with my tongue,” Sage said. She stuck her tongue out and swirled it demonstratively.

  “I can tell cat fur from dog fur just by feel,” Jane offered.

  Merry had a Breakfast Club flashback. But she didn’t think taping people’s buns together or applying lipstick via her cleavage was really wise in front of half the Aguas Milagros population. Gotta maintain my dignity, she thought. And hiccupped.

  “Mer-RY! Mer-RY! Mer-RY!”

  Bob was holding out his hand. “The masses are calling,” he said, waving her up to the stage.

  “You better get on up there, hon, and show you’re a good sport,” Dolly advised. “You don’t want folks to think you’re too high and mighty to go up against the local talent.”

  High and mighty. Yeah, rig
ht. But that gave Merry an idea. “Alright, alright,” she shouted over the chants. “I’m coming! Keep your shirts on.” For no reason she could fathom, she was smiling, and it wasn’t all about the margaritas. She stumped up onto the rickety wooden pallets, to much whistling and applause.

  “Show us what you got, girl!”

  “Shake your moneymaker!”

  “Make us proud, Mer-Ber!” (This last was from Steve Spirit Wind.)

  Merry held up her hands for silence. She found, to her astonishment, that she was rather enjoying being in the spotlight. For the first time since skiing had been taken away from her, she was actually relishing attention. Because these folks weren’t judging. They were just having fun.

  And, maybe, so can I.

  “Here’s a little trick I learned at my mother’s knee,” she announced, discovering her inner ham. “Does anyone have a nice, big book?”

  Bob dug a hardcover copy of Thucydides’s History of the Peloponnesian War from inside the host’s stand. “Will this work?”

  The tome was at least seven hundred pages long, not counting appendices. “I would think so!” Merry laughed, gesturing for the book. Bob brought it to her, eyes twinkling.

  “Now, how about a cup of tea?”

  “I got a shot of Jameson over here,” shouted one of the bluegrass banjo players. “Better speak quick though, or it’s going in my cake hole.”

  “That’ll do.”

  The shot was passed up to Merry, who set it on the stool at her side.

  “Whatcha gonna do, Merry?” Randi called out. “Read us a bedtime story?”

  “Watch and see.” Merry stood up to her full height, straightened her back, and set the book on top of her head. She bent at the knees—daintily—and picked up the shot glass with thumb and forefinger, pinky extended, before placing it with great deliberation atop the book.