His mother was a little heavy, her makeup ruddy in the dim light, her hair gleaming dark with red highlights. She had on a full blue skirt shot with gold and a red low-cut blouse. She would always be a beautiful woman, more a friend to him now than a mother.
Suzy McReynolds was dancing with some cowhand. He found a place to lean sideways into the bar and sipped at his whiskey. The music stopped, and Suzy left her partner on the floor, thanking him politely. She’d changed into skin-tight jeans and a plaid shirt.
“You did all right, I hear,” she said. Her eyes were shiny and her voice just holding back a laugh.
“Not bad.”
“You able to dance?”
Roddy grinned at her, but he shook his head. His back felt like somebody had run a steel cable up through his spine and given it a twist. He thought about how many drinks he’d have to drink to have some fun. Already, another cowboy stood at Suzy’s shoulder. “Some other time,” he said.
He made his way back to the table and pulled out the chair next to his mother. He sat down, moving slowly.
“You need to see the doctor?” His mother looked at him in the way she had when he’d run home needing a Band-Aid, when just the sound of her voice could make his boy’s pain go away.
“Head doctor, I think,” he said, and she laughed with him.
“Dolly needs her horses trailered home,” his mother said. “Are you fit enough to drive?”
“I could be.”
His mother put her hand down on the table, next to his. He was surprised to see the knuckles bent like tiny bamboo bridges, with arthritis. She still wore rings on all her fingers. She lifted her hand and placed it on his, a movement no one else would notice.
“Go on home,” she said. “There will be other years.”
31
Kenny knew he shouldn’t do it, but he had to find Cynthia, and the only way was to walk across the valley to her house. Roddy Moyers was back. He’d parked his white sports car in front of the hotel, and Kenny had looked in the window and caught a glimpse of his dark hair and jeans. He’d jumped out of sight, not knowing exactly why. But he knew he had to warn Cynthia before she ran into Moyers by chance.
He walked west on the swamp road. It had been raining, and, up ahead, misty clouds hung in the foothills, soft and inviting, like a place in Japan. Cottonwoods along the road shimmered, black-green from the rain, but farther on, where the road seemed to narrow and grow small, the sunlight fell in white and yellow rays, glowing like a picture of the garden at Gethsemane.
Beside the road, a robin tugged at a worm in the damp earth and tried to drag it. Kenny walked right up to the bird, which was so serious about the worm it didn’t fly away. It’s so fat, he thought, we could make pies.
Despite the rain, the sun above the clouds was warm on his shoulders, the air like sweet steam from a loaf of warm bread. But he was nervous.
He walked past the entrance to the dump and glanced in, looking for Dill’s truck. Though the air was warm, smoke rose from the stovepipe of the trailer. He thought maybe Cynthia was there, but he saw no tracks on the damp road.
At the ranch gate, he cut across the field and hiked through the alfalfa. He came in at an angle from behind the barn, feeling like an enemy soldier. Thinking he might be shot anytime.
When he reached the barn, he looked back at the house. Earl Dustin’s truck was gone. He felt so relieved he almost laughed. A kind of giddiness made him feel like jumping around. But he still had no way of letting Cynthia know he was there. Maybe he could just watch from where he was. Wait to see if she might come out to feed the dog or do some other chore. Her horse was in the corral.
The old horse hung her head. The rain had darkened her coat to the color of molasses. She must have been a beauty, he thought. Now, her withers were sharp and high, her stomach wide and hanging low. She stepped away from him, and seeing her from behind, her stomach round on either side like bulging saddlebags, he realized, This horse is pregnant. He looked at her bag, swollen full with milk. She’s going to foal, he thought. Not only that, but she might do it now.
As he watched the old horse, she stretched her neck to lick her flank, and looked at him, bewildered. She circled, shifting on her feet.
Cynthia had told him how hard she was to catch, but he whistled for her, softly. And she came. As if she knew he was her only hope. He opened the half door, and she swayed right through and walked herself into a stall. She lowered her head again and stood without moving, as if she were already exhausted.
He looked in the dark barn for a bucket. The least he could do was see that she had water. But the spigot was outside, between the barn and the house. He needed to tell somebody the old mare was getting ready. But he hesitated. Earl wasn’t there, but Mrs. Dustin probably was. Still, what could she do? Yell at him? Call his mom?
The mare circled in her stall, and he heard her lean on the wood wall so hard it creaked and started to give way. She’s trying to go down, he thought.
He suddenly felt tired of being ashamed all the time. It felt like he’d been looking at the ground for so long that he just wanted it to stop. He slid open the barn door and walked into the yard. He let his legs swing easy and made his way down to the house. When he got to the door, he stood up straight and knocked.
Mrs. Dustin opened the door. She looked at him and caught her breath. He could tell she didn’t know what she should say. “Earl’s gone out below,” she said.
“Your mare is down,” Kenny said.
Mrs. Dustin looked at him, and her hate seemed to stab into the air.
“Cynthia home?” he said.
“No,” she said.
Kenny didn’t know what to do then, but he stood his ground.
“Mrs. Dustin,” he said. “We didn’t do anything. You’re wrong about me.”
She looked as if he’d tried to hit her. As if just saying anything at all was a sin.
“Cynthia,” she called. “That boy is here. Come here. Tell him to go.” She looked behind her. “Cynthia!”
Cynthia entered the room behind her mother and walked to the door. She looked at him, confused, then at her mother. She shoved past her mother and pushed Kenny in front of her.
“He’s going,” she said.
To Kenny she said, “What? What are you doing here?”
“Mare’s foaling.”
“Which mare?”
“Goldie.”
She swiveled and started running for the barn. Her mother yelled, but Cynthia kept going. Kenny followed.
In the barn, Goldie was down and heaving with contractions. With each huge shudder, she gave a wheezing groan and tried to get back on her feet.
“Sit on her head,” Cynthia said. “Keep her down.”
Kenny did what he was told. He straddled the mare’s neck and used his whole body weight to try to keep her down. “Whoa,” he said, and kept repeating it. “Whoa, girl.”
“I see hooves,” Cynthia said.
The mare gave a heave and threw her head so hard her skull hit him on the chin and knocked him back against the stall.
“Watch out,” Cynthia yelled, and the mare was up on her feet. They saw the foal’s nose, sealed in pale blue membrane, its eyes closed, as it dove out front feet first. Cynthia tried to catch the long thing in her arms, and managed just to break the fall. The two of them were down in the straw, Cynthia frantic to tear the membrane so the foal could get air.
“We got him,” she said. “He’s breathing.”
Kenny watched the slick narrow chest move in and out. A tongue snaked out and licked. He couldn’t get over it. He reached down and felt the wet, soapy hair.
Cynthia crawled out from under the foal and stood up.
“Come on,” she said, backing up. “Let’s let Goldie take him.”
They stepped away and Goldie turned to find her foal. She pushed it with her muzzle and sniffed. Then she began to lick, hard licks that knocked the baby over. Already it was struggling to get its feet under itself.<
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“God,” Cynthia said. “That was easy. I was afraid. We didn’t breed her. She did this on her own. I wouldn’t breed her at this age.”
They couldn’t tell from the wet foal what color it would be, but they saw it was a horse colt, not a filly. Cynthia went out to wash her hands. When she came back, she looked at herself and laughed. Her jeans and shirt were streaked with slime and manure.
They both sat down in the straw outside the stall and watched, unable to take their eyes off the foal. It shook its head, twitching, and flopped its ears from side to side.
“Looks like a mule,” Kenny said, and Cynthia gave him a warning look.
“Don’t talk like that about the little guy.”
They watched him struggle to his legs and find the milk. Goldie seemed to heave a sigh of relief, and they laughed. They stood, and Cynthia stretched out her arms and gave Kenny a hug. The smell of her, a warm milk smell, made him want to kiss her on the neck. He hugged her back and felt her breasts push up against his chest. He pulled back, embarrassed. But Cynthia grabbed his hand and laughed.
“You better get home before Earl gets here,” she said.
He felt black. Suddenly hollow again, just hearing her say Earl’s name. And when he turned, Earl stood in the doorway.
“What’s going on here?” he said. “Mother said that boy was here.”
He came straight for Cynthia and jerked her by the arm. “How could you do that to your mother? Get in the house.”
“Stop.” Cynthia tried to pull away. “Stop it.”
Her voice sounded so scared and also, Kenny heard, embarrassed. It was the shame he heard that made him move. Earl slapped her to her knees, and Kenny moved.
He grabbed Earl from behind. He clamped Earl’s arms down, using all his strength. But Earl shook him off. The old man’s neck was burning red, and his hat was gone. Kenny tried to watch his eyes, but Earl rose in front of him like a bear swinging his paws, and when he cuffed him open-handed, the blow came like a bag of nails, not like a slap. Kenny could feel broken teeth sharp against his cheek, and he tasted blood. Cynthia was yelling, “Stop, Kenny, stop!” But it was as if he just went crazy. He charged the old man. Earl hit him again, a huge fist on the bone above his eye. He couldn’t see. He just kept moving in. Punching the old man, screaming, “Don’t you hit her. You can’t hit her.” Earl threw him, and air rushed underneath. He landed on his arm, and felt his elbow go. He scrambled to get up, but he could hardly see. He stood, shaking so hard he could barely stand.
“Get the hell off of my place,” Earl said. “Get the hell out.”
Kenny wasn’t sure what happened then. Cynthia sobbed and sucked in air. And Earl just kneeled down in the straw. His jaw tightened, and he folded down and rolled over on his side.
Cynthia was crying, “No, oh, no! Earl!” She yelled at Kenny to go get help. Call an ambulance. He ran for the house and found her mom, but she wouldn’t call the ambulance. She wouldn’t let him talk. Finally he just pointed to the barn and said, “Go! Earl’s hurt,” and she ran.
Kenny had to call the sheriff, to tell the dispatcher to send an ambulance. When he got back to the barn, Cynthia was trying to revive her dad. Breathing in his mouth. Her mom was trying to make her stop, trying to hug Earl. Kenny pulled her off and shook her, and her face seemed to fall apart, as if all the bones were gone. She grabbed on to him, as if he were Earl. And though pain shot through his arm, he held her, in much the way he’d held on to the old man.
PART IV
Summer
32
Lenna shifted her weight on the bowed and aging bleachers at the old rodeo grounds and tried not to think about Earl. When the sheriff had driven Kenny home from the hospital, he said Earl had suffered a major heart attack. That he could have another anytime. The old man had been briefly conscious, strong enough to refuse a helicopter, but a second attack would kill him.
Lenna shifted again on the uncertain boards, a combination of sorrow and fear drawing her shoulders down. From where she sat, she couldn’t see Kenny’s face where the bruises had begun to yellow, the purple fading to brown. But his crisp blue shirt gleamed against the overcast sky as he bent over the chute to help a younger boy get set for his ride.
In the cool air, dampness crept into her clothing, tunneling down the back of her collar in a way that seemed inescapable. When the younger boy was ready, the gate flew open and a squat black bull charged out. The boy aboard could not have been more than eight or nine, she thought. But he stuck on. His father leaned over the fence below, hollering advice. When the boy came off, the spectators seemed to stop breathing; the arena fell dead quiet. Then he was on his feet and making for the chutes. He’d managed to keep his hat on, pulled down over his ears, and he walked bowlegged, listing forward like a determined old cowboy. His dad grinned, and the spectators laughed out loud. Lenna could barely bring herself to smile.
She shifted again to balance her weight. It had been drizzling all week, and hooves had churned the arena into a slough of mud and manure. She’d thought of having a word with the coach, but she knew what he would say. “The boys won’t take any harm. Need to compete in all kinds of places. Any weather.”
She didn’t want to watch the rodeo, but she had made a decision. If Kenny wanted to ride, she would watch. She would drive to every practice, every event, as if he were playing baseball, never letting on how terrified she was. She’d seen men disfigured and crippled by these animals. She’d seen a man die. In truth, she watched because she felt, deep inside, that if she were there, nothing bad would happen to her son.
But Kenny had six stitches over his eye, and they’d made two trips out below to see the dentist. How a grown man could do that to a boy, she didn’t know. When Kenny came home that day, his face had looked like spoiled meat.
Earl remained in the hospital, and it was all she could do to let her mind even skirt around the edges of this fact. No one had known his heart was failing; he might have known it himself, but he was the kind of man who would never tell. She had dreams on the night after Kenny and Earl had fought—of the old man dying, of Kenny causing the death of this man.
She tried to disbelieve it, worrying the facts over and over, the way a person might relive a bad accident, thinking, What if I had driven the other way? She awoke drenched in sweat, believing she’d had a nightmare, then knowing that the dream was real. There would be no reprieve, no turning back the clock.
When the sun seemed to drift out of the clouds, her mood began to lift. Maybe the sun would bake the arena dry. They’d had so much rain that Kenny kept a close eye on the weather reports, worried about the Fourth of July, hoping the new arena would be ready. Despite his swollen bruises, he’d been practicing hard with the team and out on a barrel he’d strung from two trees with heavy rubber strips.
Though Kenny had been released into her custody, she heard over and over the sheriff’s words. If Earl came to and stayed conscious long enough, he would probably press charges for assault, or if he could, attempted manslaughter. Upstairs in the courthouse, the district attorney had her sit in a schoolhouse chair in front of his desk while he explained what procedures would follow if Earl died. Again, she shook herself. It seemed impossible, but she had witnessed the DA press more unlikely, unfair charges. His words haunted her sleep, like contusions under her own skin. How had this happened? What had she done to expose her boy to such permanent harm?
She heard the clatter of boots and shouting. The metal-on-metal ring of spurs. The 4-H clubs had repaired most of the holding pens and railings of the arena, but the old place didn’t inspire confidence. She strained to catch sight of Kenny. When she couldn’t locate the blue of his shirt, she climbed down like a toddler, using both hands for balance, and walked with care over to the chutes, avoiding the worst of the mud. She thought she might stand back there for a while, look over the stock, though she didn’t know which horse Kenny had drawn. Some parents had pulled their trucks close to the rail, where they could wa
tch sheltered and dry in case it rained. None waved at her or nodded.
As she turned behind the chutes, a hollering went up, and she knew another bull was out, spinning and twisting in the mud. She stood still, glad she couldn’t see, and waited for the group sigh of relief when the boy came off all right. She looked toward the mountains, where the long rays of sun shone through glistening rain, the kind of light that causes rainbows. Over her shoulder she saw movement, and when she turned, Roddy Moyers’s truck was there. It rolled slowly in the mud and stopped beside her.
“Hey,” Roddy said.
It shocked her to see him after so long, and she couldn’t think what to say. Her face flushed with shame, and it was all she could do not to back away.
“How have you been?” he said. His face was deeply tanned, and he squinted at her, as if he might smile.
“How do you think?” She couldn’t keep the brittle tone out of her voice.
“I’ve been gone a while,” he said.
“That’s true.”
Another man strode up and leaned in the truck to slap Roddy on the shoulder.
“How the hell are you?”
“My girlfriend’s pregnant and my wife is sick. You want to hear about it?”
“No. No, I don’t think so. Things that bad, you better keep ’em to yourself.”
Lenna walked away, left them to their joking. She sat sidesaddle on a loading ramp, hugging a post, where she had a view through the rails to the arena. The bareback broncs were up. Roddy, she thought, had a special nature; all sorts of people, not only women, were drawn to him. She’d heard him say, “A person can live glad or live sad.” He was the glad one, and despite herself, she remembered how his voice alone could feel like an arm around her shoulder, an embrace. Roddy was the sort who could make things right. She was shocked by how strongly she remembered his skin against hers.
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