by Lynn Shurr
He handed her a tiny tiger with green glass eyes. Renee blinked. In high school, boys hopeful of getting in her pants spent all their cash trying to win the huge pink poodle or the enormous stuffed panda at the booths of passing carnivals. In college, they wooed her with bouquets of expensive roses or jewelry full of diamond chips. After graduation, men who sought her favors gave her cars and rings with colored gems, usually emeralds. She had no idea why such a small, cheap toy made her feel as warm and happy as when her father had given her similar items in her childhood. She blinked her eyes a few times to hold back some sentimental tears.
“Now, don’t cry. There’s plenty more where that came from. Take your pick if you don’t like the tiger but it reminds me of you.”
“No, I love the tiger. My contacts are bothering me.” Renee tucked the little beast deep into her satchel.
Clint swung the truck and trailer out of the driveway and went down the hill, passing through the brick pillars with the rust-red iron horse heads on top that marked the entry to Red Horse Acres.
“Swanky place,” Clint remarked. His family owned an estate so big and venerable you couldn’t see any neighboring houses. “Maybe you should see an eye doctor when we get back.”
“I don’t really need them. They are for effect.”
“Effect. You mean you don’t really have green eyes? So what color are they?”
“None of your business, Clinton O. Beck. Do you want to tell me what the O in your name stands for?”
“No, ma’am. The only way you will find that out is when the preacher says it on my weddin’ day.”
“I’ll bet Snuffy knows. I could ask him.”
“Yep, he knows, all right, but he won’t tell because I know his real name. It’s a standoff, you see.”
Clint parked his battered rig in front of Plato’s Liquor and Groceries where he’d attempted to buy a fine wine a few nights ago. At least, the gas wasn’t overpriced considering the small size of the town. He got out and swiped a credit card, careful not to use his American Express platinum, at a relatively new pump. The front of the store looked to be a hundred years old with its gray and sagging cypress boards, but its protruding back was a long metal building stuffed with all the needs for a small community. He thought he’d seen some homemade bread in there on his last trip, and he did need to stock up on fresh items.
“Want to come in and shop with me?” he asked Renee.
“It’s what I do second best.”
She slid down from the truck seat and climbed up on the old porch. A couple of bentwood chairs sat on either side of an antique cracker barrel with a checker game set on its top. This was Ja’nae Plato’s doing, preserving the rustic charm of Rainbow, Louisiana. Her Unc Knobby, who owned the place, wanted to tear down the old entry, Renee knew, and put up a neon sign and some aluminum siding that would never need painting. Not that any of the Platos had painted the store before, but Ja’nae, a force in the community, prevailed. Beyond the front door, the grocery was just another warehouse-like building with florescent lighting and long rows of coolers and canned goods. Renee and Clint went down a small ramp and got a grocery basket to wheel around.
Clint headed for the dairy aisle and loaded a half-gallon of skimmed milk, a jug of orange juice, and two dozen eggs. He recognized the cheese assortment from Renee’s refrigerator and tossed in a bag of the chunks, then headed over to produce. Bananas were a must. He filled filmy plastic bags with some other fairly fresh and firm fruit, including a pineapple that could ripen on the way, and picked over the home-grown tomatoes, choosing a few red ripe and half a dozen partly green, to go with the bags of salad he threw in the cart. In the cereal aisle, he selected a box of shredded wheat and Cheerios. For cold cuts, he settled on the 96% fat free ham and smoked turkey. And, what the heck, some lean bacon. Crisp bacon was one of those simple pleasures in life he didn’t often allow himself with keeping an eye on his cholesterol.
Renee showed little interest in his choices until they got to the gourmet section, more of Ja’nae’s work, near the registers. She tossed a jar of Louisiana caviar into the basket. Clint picked it up, checked the price, and put it back.
“That’s big money for some salty fish eggs. Got to watch my budget.”
Renee pouted and wandered away to the liquor display. “Want some beer or wine or anything harder?”
“Nope. I rarely drink. May have a beer or two after an event, but that’s about all. If I hit the bottle, I’d have a lot more scars than I do.”
“Makes sense.” Secretly, she was relieved. Drunk men were often abusive men, and how well did she really know Clint Beck? She looked into the basket and saw he had added a jar of locally-made organic strawberry preserves and two loaves of herbed wheat bread baked by the Herbarium tea room down the road.
“That’s fancy bread for a cowboy. And those preserves cost almost as much as the caviar.”
“Yeah, but this stuff is good for you and tastes better, too.”
“So you are a connoisseur of caviar?”
“I been to some fancy affairs. Don’t care for it. Let’s pay up and get on the road.”
Renee seized the cart and swung into line at the register, cutting off two elderly nuns who were getting a treat of their own. Each clutched a chocolate ice cream bar. Clint wrestled the cart away from Renee. “After you, Sisters.”
“In fact, just put those ice creams on my tab,” Clint told the dark-skinned cashier.
“Why, bless you, son,” the nun with watery blue eyes said. “Is this a friend of yours, Renee?”
“Yes, he is, Sr. Helen. He’s a rodeo bullfighter, and we’re going on the road together. That’s his truck and trailer outside.” Renee gave the nuns a defiant glare and latched on to Clint’s muscular arm.
“Yes, maybe you should hang on to him. He seems to be a kind and generous gentleman,” remarked the chunky nun with the chopped off salt-and-pepper hair showing around the edge of her short veil. In a slightly gravelly voice, Sr. Inez added, “We’ll pray you have a safe journey.”
“Thank you, Sr. Inez. Clint, we need to get going.”
“Sure, honey. Nice meeting you, ladies.”
The two old nuns hobbled out of the store. They were sitting in the bentwood chairs and licking their ice creams when Renee and Clint finished hauling the groceries into the trailer and took off for Wyoming. Renee flicked a wave at them as the Belly Nelle pulled onto the blacktop road.
“I think we failed that child,” Sr. Helen said, watching as the trailer rattled away.
“She was a nice girl, sort of a tomboy, always hanging around the stables when she first came to the Academy. Then, she turned twelve and had no more time for horses. Boy crazy in the worst possible way.” Sr. Inez caught a dribble of chocolate ice cream sliding down the stick of her treat with her tongue.
“Well, they all go a little crazy when those hormones kick in, but I felt something might have gone wrong at home. Of course, Mrs. Niles is a drinker, but she seemed to keep it under control when her girls attended school with us. Renee’s father spoiled her with expensive gifts, too.” Sr. Helen finished her fudge bar and tidily disposed of the stick in a brass spittoon placed on the porch for decoration and sometimes used for its original purpose.
“No, I always felt there was something more. I asked her once if she wanted to talk to me about anything. She said I couldn’t help, no one could.” Sr. Inez missed a drop of chocolate that splattered onto the front of her short-skirted, plain habit.
“God could help her. We must put her in our prayers, Nessy. Also, that nice young man. I hope Renee doesn’t damage him.”
Chapter Four
When they got onto the highway, Renee huffed a sigh of relief. “I can’t wait to see the last of Rainbow.” She glanced in the side view mirror and watched the hamlet disappear behind one of the small hills in the area.
“You know, you shouldn’t be rude to nuns or elderly people, Renee. That’s what my mama taught me.”
�
��Yeah, well, those two old biddies taught me, not my mother. Sr. Inez could be pretty quick with a ruler in history class if she caught you daydreaming or passing notes. I went to Mt. Carmel Academy from the time I turned six. It’s a very exclusive school. My daddy could afford it after he sold his cattle land for development. Bodey’s ranch sits on a big part of the Niles parcel, and my cousin Rusty has a little piece, too. At one time, the Niles family owned all the land on the other side of this highway. We fell on hard times after the War Between the States.”
“The Becks were already in Texas by then, German immigrants who didn’t know nothing about ranching. Some of them fought around here with General Green, a couple of brothers who went home when peace set in and opened a general store.” Jeez, he’d almost told her the Beck’s Baked Beans story learned at his daddy’s knee. “They didn’t get rich,” he added.
“That old store we were in—Rusty’s wife says it has been there in one form or another since Reconstruction. The same with the Rainbow Café across the street. The Platos were freedmen.”
“Well, old times don’t matter, and good times do. Wyoming, here we come.” Clint pumped the Belly Nelle’s horn. A loud aaah-oooo-gah sounded turning the heads of a herd of cattle grazing by the wayside and the truckers in the big rigs they passed.
****
Toward evening, they swung into bluesy Memphis. Clint found a campground where they could leave The Tin Can, despite Renee’s hints that she’d like to see the ducks at the Peabody Hotel.
“We can see the ducks tomorrow, honey pie, but that will give us a late start. I want to be in Albuquerque for dinner. What say we unhook the Nelle and go into town for some barbecue and blues?”
If that was the best she could get, she would take it. They shared a pile of ribs and a mound of slaw at a place Clint knew called the Rendezvous, down an alley and in a cellar. Great food though. She licked and sucked on those bones as she had once done at the Rainbow Cafe on a prom night date shared with Bodey Landrum.
Clint watched, grinning, and worked a piece of meat out of his teeth with a toothpick. “Keep that up, Tiger, and there will be a bone under the table as well as on top.”
“The Peabody is nearby if we want to get a room.”
She never gave up, did she? “Gotta watch the budget. Have to say Mama Tyne’s wet ribs back in Rainbow are about as good and cheaper. Let’s hit some clubs.”
They did Beale Street, had beers at B.B. King’s Blues Club and the Rum Boogie Café, enjoyed some free street music and acrobatics, wound up at Automatic Slim’s Tonga Club where the Renee had two martinis, but Clint cut himself off for the night.
“We got an early mornin’, babe, remember?”
Renee put on her pouty look again, but allowed herself be driven back to the trailer. She intended to punish Clint for cutting the night short and the lousy accommodations by turning her back on him in the foldout double bed and pretending to go right to sleep. He simply poked in between her firm thighs and rounded buttocks and rocked against her until Renee figured she wasn’t going to get anything out of this unless she turned over.
Clint worked his fingers between her legs and remarked, “You’re mighty slick for a sleeping woman.”
Hard to resist Clinton O. Beck when she felt full and buzzy. The warm waves he created rose up into her body. Amazing, the skills an ignorant cowboy could acquire on the road—and the stamina. She gave him her special moves in return, sucking him in deeper and working those muscles. She was touched when they finished, and Clint got a bowl of warm water and a bar of the scented soap she’d packed to clean her thighs and lave her pubis. She came again as he washed her, running the terry cloth up and down in her cleft. By the time he’d disposed of the bowl and gotten back into bed, Renee had fallen into a genuine sleep.
Clint couldn’t shut his eyes. Guys were supposed to doze off without a care. Yes, he’d used a condom, but he wasn’t so sure Renee had done her contraception thing. When she’d worked her muscles, she’d sucked the rubber right off of him. He’d tried to clean up any spillage, and she’d had another orgasm, great for encouraging any stray sperm to come on down. Well, one thing he’d learned in the bullring was not to worry about what might happen and deal with what did happen. Clint rolled over and closed his eyes.
****
Renee woke sniffing the air. The scent of frying bacon overwhelmed the usual tobacco fug of the trailer. She squinted her eyes against the light coming in through the flimsy curtains. Way too close to dawn to suit her usual schedule. Turning the meat in a pan, Clint stood at the small propane stove. Another little skillet held scrambled eggs flecked with green peppers, onions, and mushrooms. On the back burner, a dented metal coffee pot burbled. Clint forked some crispy strips of bacon onto a paper towel.
“Stay where you are, Tiger. I got this all under control. Breakfast in bed coming up.”
Renee reached down and plucked up the shirt Clint had worn the night before. It still smelled of barbecue sauce and cigarette smoke from the bars, but she put it on anyhow, leaving the tops of her breasts exposed.
“Aww, you didn’t have to dress up for the meal,” Clint said as he filled a plate with eggs and bacon and toasted herbal bread just popped from a vintage 1950’s toaster. He presented the food along with a scratched and bent fork garnered from a drawer full of eating utensils.
“I never eat breakfast. I’m not usually awake for it.”
“Breakfast, the most important meal of the day.” Clint pulled the leopard throw over Renee’s bare legs and placed the plate in her lap. “Don’t want you to burn yourself. Eat up. We need to get on the road.”
The spicy steam from the eggs wafted up from the plate. The bacon beckoned. Renee couldn’t remember when she’d last had bacon. Her appetite was enormous this morning for some reason. She raised a crisp, brown strip to her lips and crunched down on it. Salty, greasy heaven. Before she could stop herself, she shoveled down the eggs. Considering how old the gadget on the counter was, it made perfect toast, better than her fancy machine at home.
“Coffee, milk, or juice?” Clint asked. “I usually have all three.”
“Just coffee, black. This meal has done enough damage already.”
“I like a woman with an appetite, but all we got time for is breakfast.” He poured the bacon grease into an empty Beck’s Baked Beans can to save for frying eggs and ate his food standing up to avoid temptation.
Clint cleaned up the dishes in the small sink while Renee showered. He could hear her bumping around and cursing in the tiny bathroom and smiled to himself.
They picked up Rt. 40 and made good time on the long, straight highway that put old Rt. 66 out of business. Renee tossed them a salad for lunch at a roadside rest. Clint opened a can of Beck’s Hearty Chili with Beans to go with it, but Renee declined a bowl. They would have gotten to Albuquerque before dark if Renee hadn’t gotten playful when he stopped for gas and a stretch.
Afterward, she seemed to want a reward, so he took her inside the hideous “trading post” crammed to the ceiling with Indian baskets made in Indonesia and rattlesnake heads encased in plastic paperweights. While he waited in line behind a large family with four kids who couldn’t make up their minds about flavors to get his girlfriend a single scoop of low-fat vanilla in a sugar cone and with a chocolate dip, Renee made a beeline for the good jewelry. Ah-ha.
By the time he handed over the cone, she had draped a silver sunburst of a needlepoint Zuni necklace across her shoulders and held up the matching earrings. Each slim setting was filled by a sliver of green stone that came close to matching her unnatural eyes. A bracelet and ring completed the set. The smiling, brown-eyed clerk showing lots of Native American blood in her features stood by the case she had unlocked and waited for the sale like Crazy Horse sneaking up on Custer.
“A set like this is called a parure, a Zuni parure. Don’t I look great in it, Clint?”
“Sure do, Tiger.” He glanced at the dangling price tags and did a quick estimate
in his head. “Get it if you can afford it.”
Renee scowled, and the clerk frowned. She cocked her pretty red head and considered. Husband hunting had depleted her resources, and she hated running to Daddy every time she maxed out her cards. Every once in a while, she sold a painting, but erotica seemed to be “out” in Lafayette right now, while Eve’s icons and landscapes were “in”. Better save what credit she had left on her cards to get home when she got tired of Mr. Cheapskate with the great body.
“Sorry, no deal,” she told the clerk. “I’m going to nap in the trailer this afternoon, Clinton O. Beck.” Renee flounced off to sulk in The Tin Can.
“Be with you after I use the restroom, baby,” he called after her. “Those beans go right through a man.”
The clerk paused as she was about to thrust the jewelry back into the case. “You’re Clinton Beck, the Bull Bomber. I saw you perform once. You were fantastic.”
“Fantastic enough to get a discount on those earrings? I’d be pleased to autograph the sales slip. But first, is this real Zuni work?”
“Yeah. That’s why we keep ’em locked up.” She held up the necklace. “Might have cooked the stones a little to bring out the color. I can give you twenty percent off.”
“You still get a commission?”
“You bet.” The woman smiled broadly. “No more dumb Injuns.”
“In that case, I’ll take the necklace, bracelet, and the ring, too. Put it in a nice box for me, now.” When he and Renee parted as friends, he’d give it to her, but not before.
The tab came close to a thousand dollars, eight-hundred with the discount. While the clerk rang up the sale, Clint gave out autographs to several of the staff members and took his time about it. Once back at the truck, he opened one of the secret compartments from which animals popped when Snuffy performed his clown act and, making sure dirty birds or the miniature donkey hadn’t left any souvenirs of their own behind, hid the jewelry case until the right time came along.
Renee sulked until they reached Albuquerque and parked the trailer at a truck stop. She had no way of knowing he should have taken the cutoff toward Las Vegas, New Mexico, to save time in getting to Casper. Clint hinted he wanted to show her something in this city. He suggested they take the tram up Sandia Peak and dine at the High Finance Restaurant. She mellowed under the influence of a glass of wine and prime roast rib as they watched the lights twinkle in the valley. Renee refused dessert and didn’t touch her baked potato. Clint asked for a box and forked the potato and her leftover meat into the Styrofoam tray. Renee appeared to be mortified by his frugality.