Love and Country

by Christina Adam

  The man sat in the saddle, upright and still, his short legs resting in the stirrups and the reins lifted in one hand. They hung in a long, loose loop. The horse was on his own. The calves stopped still. They braced their legs stiff, facing the cutting horse. The horse lowered his head, set his front legs, and swung over to cut out a calf. The rider never moved. Sitting perfectly still above the horse, he seemed to float from side to side. Then the horse swung back to pick up another calf. It was a beautiful thing to watch. Kenny leaned forward on the bench, breathing in the damp, raw smell of sawdust and horses and manure. If he could have had anything he wanted right then, it would have been to see the cutting horse go on cutting.

  Scullie reined the horse aside and let the calves run through. After they trotted past him and crowded up against the holding pen, he swung off the horse and led him to the rail where the boys were watching.

  “What you want to do here,” Scullie said, “is try not to upset the horse.”

  His voice was so low Kenny had to strain forward to hear him. The boys laughed, and Scullie went on, speaking to them as if he were trying to calm an animal. From time to time he reached up and scratched the horse under the chin strap.

  “You keep your behind in the saddle, the horse’ll do the job. Just try and keep aboard. Keep your eye on the cow. Get the feel of the thing.

  “Rodeo’s the only sport we got comes out of work. Show respect for the working man and his animal.” He nodded to the last boy on the end.

  The boy climbed over the rail. Scullie spoke to him in his low voice while the kid swung up in the saddle, then handed him the reins. He moved around, lengthening the stirrups, and gave the boy a nod.

  The horse loped down toward the chutes, and the boy backed him aside while the calves shot out. Then he tried to cut out a single calf. The horse did all the work. The hard part, Kenny knew, was feeling the horse move. His dad used to say, “Just think like a cow, only faster.” You had to relax, sort of let your legs and your butt do the thinking.

  None of the boys on the team handled the calves as well as Rud. While Kenny watched, everyone lost his calf, and time after time the horse slid right out from under his rider. Left him hanging sideways off the saddle or flat on his elbows in the sawdust. Mr. Gallagher hollered, and Rud strode out to reach down a hand and help the boy up. When a rider fell, the horse stopped dead, his reins hanging loose, his head down, as if he’d been turned off by a switch. Kenny felt almost hypnotized. Until he heard a deep voice yell, “That a boy!” he didn’t notice a crowd of men had collected along the rail.

  After the last boy, Rud led the horse out of the arena, and everybody walked back to the chutes. They all seemed to know what was going on. Kenny didn’t know, but he followed the others to the rear of the barn, where a man in a shaggy vest put his shoulder to the heavy door and rolled it aside. Behind the door, a narrow chute connected to another barn. Two men from the crowd stepped in to help Scullie haze the calves out.

  The pens near the door were high and permanent, built of splintering, rough-sawn lumber. Kenny climbed up on the boards to watch the long, dusty backs of horses shoot through the door. One by one they scrambled into the holding pen. They ran full tilt until they met the far side, then swiveled, and the whole herd started circling all in one direction. From where he sat, Kenny could look down into the holding pens on one side, two bucking chutes on the other. Mr. Gallagher and Rud stood together in the arena, their eyes on the ground.

  In the pens, two men worked the broncs. One slipped through the gate into the pen, flicking a long-handled whip over his head. It took only seconds for one gate to swing open, another to shut—and a horse was in the chute. Mr. Gallagher called a name, Bart Hoskins, and a big, dark-haired kid appeared beside him in the arena.

  “Get up there and set your rigging,” Mr. Gallagher said.

  Bart climbed above the chute and set his rigging on the bronc. Rud and Gallagher hooked and tied the cinch and made adjustments. When they were in agreement, Bart braced his boots on either side of the chute and lowered himself down on the horse, talking to himself. “Hoa, boy, whoa.” He tightened his resined glove with his teeth and took a hold. Then he nodded, and the gate swung open.

  The horse wheeled out into the sawdust, pivoting on his hind legs. He reared, his front hooves huge and hairy, drawn up tight to his chest, and came down with a jolt that snapped Bart’s head back so hard everybody heard the bones crack. Bart rolled his spurs up and forward, where they were supposed to be, but he didn’t work his knees. He was laid back almost flat on the rump. Then he was off in the dirt. He stood up, dusting off his jeans with hard slaps. Two pickup men on horseback cornered the loose horse, released the bucking strap, and hazed him out. Mr. Gallagher shouted at the boys, “Okay, clear it out. Swanson, get your butt up there and help. We got no time and ten rides. Let’s go.”

  The next kid climbed the chute, and Gallagher gripped his shoulder, talking into his ear. Kenny hunched over in front of the rider, a foot braced on either side of the chute, helping set the rigging. Gallagher’s words were low and fast. “Spur him out, keep your shoulders square, jerk your knees.” The kid frowned, his forehead gone white under his eyebrows. He couldn’t nod. He worked his hand snug under the handhold, but Kenny saw the muscles in his neck tense up like cables.

  Then the horse was gone, and another one was in the chute. A gray, mottled horse the color of a dirty tennis shoe. His eye was wild, with pink skin showing around it, and the minute he was settled in, he reared. He twisted sideways and crashed into the boards, slipped, and went down. Kenny jumped clear, landing square on both feet in the narrow space behind the chute, but a manure-caked hoof came through the boards. It struck him on the shin just below the knee. It felt like a rusty knife cutting into the bone. Kenny winced when the pain shot up his leg, turning to nausea in his stomach. He set his jaw against the pain and saw the hoof wedged between the boards. He knew better than to reach a hand down there, but if he didn’t do something, the horse would tear himself to pieces, break the leg. Without thinking, Kenny waited for the struggling horse to straighten the foot. Then he knelt and braced a thigh against the hoof and pushed the leg back through the boards. It happened fast, and nobody saw. Then the horse was up, stamping and wheezing, and the boys were strapping on the rigging.

  Kenny took his time climbing back up over the chutes. The bronc stood ready, but Mr. Gallagher had called the rider down to the arena. He had his arm around the kid’s shoulder, his head bent, talking. You couldn’t blame the boy for being scared, the bronc could have gone down with him aboard.

  Rud straddled the chute and tried to soothe the horse. The wide, mottled back nearly filled the narrow space. He leaned his weight against the boards, and Kenny heard the wood groan. Rud whispered under his breath, “Take it easy, easy.” The horse jerked his head up hard and flattened his ears. Rud settled him back down. He kept a grip on one of the long ears, but he looked down in the arena, then at Kenny.

  “Take a seat, boy,” he said. “This one ain’t waitin’ for the conference to disperse.”

  Kenny hesitated. The horse jerked away from Rud’s grip.

  “Take a seat, boy.” He jerked off his own glove and when Kenny had it on said, “Move!”

  Kenny moved. He slipped down over the wide back, fit his palm under the leather handhold, and without trying to set his mind to it, nodded. Rud yelled, the arena cleared, and the gate swung open.

  Kenny couldn’t spur the bronc out. He didn’t have his spurs on. Not even boots. But the habit of it flowed through his body, his knees began to pump, his heels up on the withers of the horse. The big bronc twisted in a spiral, but Kenny stayed with him. They were tossed by a hard, jolting buck that took them both across the arena. All Kenny felt was the thrill of being up high, moving fast. The blood pumped in his face. But his body caught the rhythm of the ride, and for a second, he and the horse were one crazy, jolting thing.

  Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the blu
r of the pickup man. He reached out with his free hand, let go, and dove—both arms stretched out. He got hold of the saddle and let the pickup horse drag him off the bronc. Then he was standing alone in the dirt and sawdust, his legs trembling so hard he didn’t know if he could walk. He started toward the chutes, but the joints in his knees gave with every step, as if he were walking on a mattress.

  The men on the rail whooped, and Kenny looked up to see everybody standing at the chute. He grinned. Then they all found something to do and only Mr. Gallagher was there. He spoke to the boys.

  “You kids hold tight,” he said. He turned to look at Kenny. “Swanson, I’ll see you out at the bus.”

  Kenny stopped walking.

  “Now!” Mr. Gallagher barked.

  Kenny turned on his heel, dizzy and confused, and walked past the men on the bleachers.

  “Good job,” one said. They were climbing down, walking back to the chutes to help out. Kenny picked up his jacket and walked out the barn door into the circle of white light. A snowflake filtered down and melted on his hand. He shrugged into his jacket and stood in the shadow of the bus.

  Mr. Gallagher swung around the bus, walked up close, and grabbed him by the shoulder. His fingers pressed into the muscle, and a needle of pain shot up Kenny’s neck. Mr. Gallagher pushed him up against the metal siding of the bus.

  “That hurt?” Gallagher said.

  Kenny didn’t answer.

  “Does it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gallagher loosened his grip, but his face was dark and tight. A vein pumped in his neck. His next words squeezed out between his teeth in a whisper.

  “No,” he said, “it doesn’t. But you ever pull that again, you’ll know what hurt is. That clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Gallagher let go of his shoulder and stepped back.

  “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

  Kenny wanted to explain—to tell Gallagher how Rud had urged him. But he knew better. Gallagher would only think he was making excuses.

  “I won’t do it again.”

  “That’s right. You won’t.” Gallagher looked at him with disgust, slapped his clipboard down on his hip, and nodded at the bus.

  “Get on the bus and stay there,” he said. “Don’t move until we’re back at school.”

  Kenny stepped up on the metal stair.

  “Wait,” Gallagher said. He ripped a sheet from under the notes on his clipboard and held it out. Kenny took it and glanced down at the paper. It was a permission slip.

  Kenny started to say he couldn’t, but Mr. Gallagher walked away.

  He folded the sheet in two and climbed on the bus. He walked to the rear and sat down. The plastic seat was brittle with cold. He slid over to the window, the backs of his thighs beginning to numb. His shin throbbed where the horse had kicked him, but Kenny hardly felt it. He looked at the white sheet of paper in his hand. If he’d had something to write with, he would have signed the thing himself, right then.

  13

  Warm steam clouded on the surface of the water and thinned in the icy air. A full moon drifting above turned pearly pink and pale blue. Where the steam thinned and drifted, Roddy located a few stars glittering through. His shoulders and head were cold, but the smooth, black surface of the water covered his chest. In daylight, the water was clear enough that he could count the small, round river stones that cushioned his feet. He felt the swirl of water around his ankle, the movement of a fish. He took large slow-motion steps and heaved himself up on a rock.

  Cynthia sat just in front of him, the moon pale on her shoulders, her wet hair dark in the mist. There were others at the spring. Their voices carried, bouncing off a sheer wall of rock above, but he couldn’t see them. The black water lay like a smooth blanket across his knees.

  They were waiting for the train, but he hadn’t told her. He’d only said that at the end of the car ride, something would happen, a surprise.

  “When?” She didn’t whisper, but her voice was very low.

  “Soon,” he said.

  He wanted to reach out and touch her. It seemed like such an easy thing to do. The mist made everything so close and quiet.

  He’d brought girls here before, but none of them acted the way she did. Some laughed, embarrassed, or wouldn’t take their clothes off and get in. Sometimes they were awed, smiling all the time, their faces pale and sweaty with the heat. But Cynthia had folded her clothes without turning away or speaking. She stood long enough for him to see the lift of her breasts, their soft upward curve, before she slipped into the water.

  Her face, when he saw it, was serious. Not frowning or laughing or excited by the place. Just there, like a profile in white marble.

  He heard a voice at the far end of the pool, and a beam of light glanced off the mountain above, brief, like a flash of lightning. He heard the far rumble of the train, and the light, blinding white, exploded in the mist rising high above them. The whole pool shook, the water quivering against his skin.

  “Come on,” he said, and slipped into the water. Cynthia lowered herself off the rock. The air itself seemed to glow iridescent, shimmering, like the northern lights. The train blared a warning and roared over their heads, the sound pulsing through him as a physical thing. He opened his mouth and yelled, and couldn’t hear or feel his own voice. He put his hand on Cynthia’s shoulder to steady himself. Vibrations jolted through his palm. The light vanished, and he could only hear the clank and rattle of the couplings on the long freight train, invisible on the track carved out of the rock above them.

  When Cynthia turned to him this time, he thought she was smiling. “Hey,” she said, and he could hear laughter behind the one word.

  “Hey,” he said.

  When he kissed her, her lips trembled and went soft.

  PART II

  Winter

  14

  Lenna stepped out of the courthouse into air so dry and cold it took her breath away and seemed to freeze the membranes in her nose. As she walked to the post office, her view included the entire length of Main Street, already in shadow, and two or three parked cars. They looked abandoned, huddled like turtles under layered banks of snow. Everything seemed softened by whiteness. No one else was out, but scratchy Christmas music blared across the snow from loudspeakers on the roof of the fire station, and lighted plastic snowmen swung from the streetlights. They had been hung by the neck, like effigies. It made her laugh. She loved Christmas. When her boot slid on the ice, she flattened each foot and walked stiffly across the street.

  Two blocks farther on, she pushed open the glass door to the post office. While she waited for the one customer ahead of her at the window, she felt soothed by the warmth of the small room, by the neon lights and clean counters. But she was anxious to get home. Kenny would have built up the fire by now and started dinner.

  “You’ve been working hard, Mrs. Swanson.” The postmistress, Doris Blumely, smiled behind her pale plastic glasses and took the bundles of county mail from Lenna, placing them side by side in a long tray. Lenna returned her smile and said good night.

  She walked around the corner to the wall of shining brass post office boxes and turned the key in the lock of her own box, on the top row. Standing on her toes, she swung open the door—like the door of a tiny bank vault—and looked inside, hoping for a card or letter. But the box held only bills, which she wedged out of sight in her handbag. She was nearly out the door before she realized the postmistress was waving a letter and calling her name.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, “I almost forgot. This came in at four o’clock. I usually would wait and put a notice in your box in the morning, but it looks important.”

  “Thank you,” Lenna said and took the letter in her hand. It was a government letter, embossed with thick blue printing. She stared at it, puzzled at first, and then afraid. Doris leaned over the counter, her posture full of concern and curiosity.

  “Thank you,” Lenna said again and began to l
eave.

  “Wait,” Doris called. “You have to sign.”

  Pressing down hard to keep her hand from trembling, Lenna signed her full name, “Lenora Swanson,” in even, slanting letters. Doris took the receipt and Lenna tried again to go.

  “Is everything all right?” Doris asked, and Lenna turned back, making herself smile. “Fine,” she said. “Everything’s fine.” She waved and pushed open the door to the icy night outside.

  Remembering to keep her feet flat on the slippery pavement, Lenna walked back to her car across from the courthouse. She opened the door and wrapped her coat close around her thighs to slide behind the wheel. For a long moment she sat there, feeling her heart pound. Then she switched on the dome light and stared again at the letter. She’d had letters like this before; always they brought bad news. She dreaded these blue-and-white envelopes the way she dreaded the letters that came from Kenneth Swanson’s lawyer.

  She tore the end carefully off the envelope, to preserve it intact, and unfolded the letter against the steering wheel. Slowly she read each word. Kenny’s father was dead, in a “routine test flight over the Gulf of Mexico.” The air force had conducted a search for three days before they located the wreckage. There were no survivors.

  “Oh . . . no . . . ,” Lenna spoke aloud. Her whole body convulsed, as if it could physically push out this hard thing wedged in her chest. She swallowed, but the pain, like a dull bone caught sideways in her windpipe, would not go down. Her mind rushed toward this—Kenny’s father alone in the water—then pushed it away. She saw him alive, standing in the doorway, wearing a white T-shirt and looking like a boy. A “routine test flight”? Ken Swanson thought of airplanes the way most people think of cars. He’d flown dozens of missions in the war. She read the letter again, read, “no survivors,” and the pain thrust up, scraped out of her throat in a sob.