Hard Twisted

by C. Joseph Greaves

  Lottie giggled. Yes, ma’am.

  Another outburst from the kitchen arose and subsided.

  You sure was lucky, havin six healthy young ’uns.

  The woman’s eyes twinkled. Six still at home. Ten all together.

  Each resumed her respective office, Lottie rolling and cutting and the woman stripping muslin from the bolt on the floor beside her, each listening to the low babble and purl of the kitchen voices.

  Ma’am?

  Yes, Johnny Rae?

  What’s it like? Havin babies, I mean.

  The woman peered over her glasses. She removed them and set them on the table.

  My dear, the miracle of childbirth is the Lord’s special gift to all womankind. In a lifetime of lesser achievements, the arrival of my firstborn was my proudest and happiest moment on earth. I know that makes me sound like some dotty old dowager, but someday, the good Lord willing, you’ll know exactly what I mean.

  But don’t it hurt?

  Hurt? Pshaw. Pain is corporeal and fleeting and is a woman’s lot in life. But the joy of motherhood? She closed her eyes and touched a hand to her breast. The joy of motherhood is a thing that lives in the soul and lasts a thousand lifetimes.

  Palmer appeared in the doorway on Lottie’s third morning in the warmly chaotic household of her widowed benefactress; a bloodshot and dirty Harlequin in calfskin gloves and a sagging red kerchief, the bay horse grazing hungrily on the lawn behind him.

  Beggin your pardon, ma’am, he said, removing his hat, but I believe you got somethin belongs to me.

  They rode out that same afternoon, doubled as before, with food in their bedrolls and the great blue horizon beckoning in all directions. Palmer smoking and scouting the country and Lottie slumped behind him, turning to glimpse over her shoulder the receding Monticello skyline.

  He’d hired on with a cow outfit up on the Blue, he told her, until trouble, his old trail partner, had found him out again. Allegations were made over some missing liquor, and he, being the new man, had fallen under suspicion. A small misunderstanding that might easily have been resolved but for the mulish intransigence of the foreman, leaving wages unpaid and scores, therefore, unsettled.

  They followed the dirt road south until they’d cleared sight of the town and come to an old wagon track that crosscut through the stunted cedars heavy with mistletoe. Here Palmer pulled rein and turned the horse and drew his foot from the stirrup.

  Hop down, he told her.

  What for?

  On account I said so is what for.

  She dismounted and stood on the dusty selvage. She looked up at Palmer in the saddle, and at the rising of the cedar forest, and at the darker blue pleating of the mountain beyond.

  Now what?

  Untie that coffeepot.

  She worked the saddle strings while Palmer leaned and opened his valise, arching his back and snugging the revolver into his waistband. He lifted the canteen and drank from it, the water dribbling onto his filthy shirtfront. He wiped at his mouth and doffed his hat and slung the canteen strap over his shoulder in the manner of a Mexican bandolier.

  You just keep out of sight, he told her. And be ready to ride.

  You could just let it be.

  What?

  Is it worth gettin yourself shot over two days’ wages?

  The horse stamped. Palmer looked at her and looked at the mountain and leaned and spat in the dust.

  Darlin, he said, I thought you might of knowed me better by now.

  She started at the sound of the hoofbeats. There were two sets by her reckoning, moving at a trot. She stood and took up the coffeepot just as Palmer appeared in the roadway before her.

  He sat astride the bay horse, but now with a catchrope dallied to his saddle horn and a sleek buckskin filly side-wheeling in the cross-trail behind him. The new dun horse was groomed and saddled, her stirrups pinioned to the horn. She wore no bridle, but Palmer, or someone before him, had knotted the woven catchrope into a mecate.

  Get on, he said, wiping his face with a shirtsleeve. She’s green, but she’ll pony.

  Where’d she come from?

  He twisted in his saddle and sighted the tree line above them.

  Can you just this one time do what you’re told?

  She took down the stirrups and slid her whole hand under the latigo.

  No time for that. Let’s go.

  Resting the coffeepot on the pommel, she stepped into the stirrup and hopped once and swung herself into the saddle. The saddle was huge and the stirrups were overlong and she reached them only on tiptoes.

  Anyone come past here while I was gone?

  I don’t think so. I fell asleep.

  Gripping the horn, she leaned and rocked until the saddle again was centered. Palmer, meanwhile, had uncoiled the catchrope and held it in his gloved fist.

  You ready to ride?

  She shifted forward and regripped the horn with her free hand. I’m ready.

  He touched his heels to the bay horse, and they moved off in tandem, the bay loping and the buckskin trotting easily behind. He some cowboy Quixote in his gaudy kerchief and bandolier, and she his loyal Panza, her head bobbing, her kettle held aloft as though awaiting some signal to serve him.

  They quartered the sun across the southern horizon, traversing the high plain and dropping down over the pass. Palmer turning to mark her, or the road behind her. They saw no cars and no other riders.

  We get you a proper bridle and we could see us some of this country, he called to her. It don’t take much money to live on the hoof.

  On the outskirts of Blanding they picked their way into a side wash that grew into a narrow canyon. They followed the canyon westward, Palmer leaning or standing in the stirrups to read the silted washbottom.

  The canyon forked and forked again, the air cooling as the walls rose higher around them leaving sunlight stranded on their upper palisades. The footing was soft and crusted in places where water once had run. After a while the horses perked and quickened, and they heard the lilting trickle of a spring.

  They entered a massive chamber of red-rock walls draped in trailing moss where seepwater bled from the cool sandstone to pool in greenish puddles. The floor of the chamber was hardened sand, with a ring of firestones at its center.

  They stood down from their horses and unsaddled them and left them loose to drink. Lottie was tired and sunburned, and she slumped with her back to a rock slab while Palmer knelt with the horses, wetting his kerchief and dabbing his banded forehead.

  Need to get you a hat.

  Lottie nodded, her eyes still closed.

  How do you like that claybank?

  She didn’t respond.

  I’m talkin to you.

  Ain’t they gonna come lookin for her?

  Palmer rose and crossed to his soogan. He squatted and felt within it, removing a stoppered whiskey bottle. The new horse lifted its head.

  Don’t worry about that, Palmer told her, uncorking the bottle and drinking and wiping his face on a shirtsleeve. I run the whole remuda. By the time they finish countin noses, we’ll be long gone.

  Lottie was silent. Palmer rose again and crossed to stand above her.

  What is it?

  Nothin.

  Like hell nothin. You gonna sull up now cuz I pinched you a nice ridin horse?

  I ain’t sulled.

  The hell you ain’t. He drank again and turned and studied the horses where they stood with their heads lowered. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doin.

  I ain’t doin nothin.

  Yes, you are. You’re settin there all high and holy and you’re passin judgments on me.

  Am not.

  He walked to where the new horse was standing and set down the bottle and gripped her roughly by the mane, lifting her head and leading her in a circle to where Lottie had risen and stood now with her heart in her throat.

  You don’t want this horse, is that it?

  She didn’t respond. Palmer drew the pis
tol from his waistband and cocked it and took aim at the horse’s head.

  Don’t!

  The gun fired and Lottie screamed, the echoes of girl and gunshot overlapping in their lithic refuge. The horse reared and galloped down-canyon, showering Palmer in sand where he stood with the pistol raised to skyward and the gunsmoke curling in the half-light above him.

  Lottie began to sob. Palmer grabbed her by the shirtfront and yanked her forward and spun her roughly to the ground, the shirt cloth tearing in his fist. He kicked her once, twice, where she lay curled.

  Damn you! Damn you to hell! Look what you made me go and do!

  The morning was late in coming, and when Lottie finally woke, it was to Palmer bent over a cookfire with sunbeams angling from over the rimrock bathing him in a gauzy radiance. Nearby, both horses stood as bookends with their muzzles in the spring pool, the buckskin lifting its dripping head and nickering as Lottie stirred.

  Her ribs ached and her head was light as she stood upright and moved but two steps from her bedroll before kneeling to retch, and to retch again.

  Palmer was beside her as she spat and wiped her mouth. He lifted her gently by an elbow.

  Easy now. Coffee’s just about ready, and I got biscuits in the chute.

  She could not straighten. He cupped her shoulder and walked her weak-kneed to the fire, where the saddles lay angled in the sand like jetsam left by a tide long receded.

  Here we go. You need a blanket? How about that coffee?

  He moved nimbly, fetching her blanket and her cup and pouring her coffee. Solicitous in his every aspect. He poked at the embers and unstacked the plates and reached for the iron skillet.

  Whooee! Here. Hold this.

  He passed her a plate and wrapped a glove onto the panhandle and parsed out the blackened biscuits. She nibbled and swallowed, and he hung as on tenterhooks on her verdict.

  How’s that? Good?

  She nodded. He filled his own cup and sat and watched her as she ate in small bites, avoiding his eyes. Behind her, the bay horse moved across the sandy wash, sniffing at her empty bedroll.

  I seen some cow track on the way in, he told her.

  She looked at him without speaking.

  Got me to thinkin, maybe I could catch on with a outfit right hereabouts. We could set us some roots, maybe find us a piece of ground. From what I seen of the cowboyin in these parts, I’d be top hand in no time. Then your pa, he could come to us instead of us chasin him all over creation.

  What about the horse?

  Palmer looked to the dun horse mirrored in the spring pool.

  Tell you what, you let me worry about her. He set down his plate, reaching across to stroke her dirty cheek. I’m sure sorry about last night.

  She looked away, and he rose on to his knees to face her.

  Listen, Lucile. I been in some hard places in my life, and I seen some things no man ought to of seen. I know that don’t excuse what I done, but a dog that’s been kicked too much, well, he’s liable to bite and scratch when he ought to be a’lickin and a’waggin his tail. And that’s me right there in a nutshell.

  He took hold of her hands.

  I been thinkin about this all night, and I figured that you, you’re like the little girl what finds that dog and takes him in and gives him a good home. Only it takes a while for that dog to understand that things is different this time, and that he don’t have to snap and bite all the time to protect himself. That the little girl is lookin out for him, and that she won’t do nothin to hurt him. And that’s what I got to learn, I know that, and you’ve got to have a little patience with me is all. I guess that’s the long way around to what I’m tryin to say.

  Tears were in his eyes by the end, and she at the sight of them reached out to wipe his face, and in so doing became the very girl of his story.

  They rode into Blanding side by side on the main street like thin and ragged heralds of some coming apocalypse, Palmer dirty and unshaven and Lottie hunched forward over her pommel and a town cur yapping and bristling in their wake.

  They rode past the schoolhouse and the stake house, and they reined in before the lone café, where Palmer dismounted and tied the bay horse to a lamp standard. He reached up and eased the wincing girl from her saddle.

  Wait here, he told her, passing her the knotted catchrope.

  She watched through the plate glass as Palmer spoke with the counterman. The portly Dane listened with growing interest as Palmer spoke at length and then stepped aside to gesture streetward. At last the man untied his apron and circled the counter.

  They stood at the window side by side, the big man nodding at the smaller man’s narration. Then he said something and turned, and Palmer flashed Lottie a thumbs-up and moved to the door.

  They ate chicken-fried steaks with mashed potatoes and flour gravy, and they drank cold root beers from the bottle through white paper straws. They sat by the window with an angled view of the horses, Palmer rising from his seat cushion whenever a stroller paused too long to regard them.

  They had the café to themselves, the counterman washing dishes somewhere in back. When he finally returned, wiping his hands on his dirty apronfront, Palmer stood and followed him outside.

  Lottie watched as they circled the buckskin, Palmer pointing and extolling as the counterman inspected the saddle and lifted the horse’s pasterns each in turn, cupping her hooves and bending to examine her shoeing. He looked inside her mouth. He stood by while Palmer led her into the street and trotted her up and back. Then he spat on his hand, and Palmer did likewise, and the two men shook.

  Palmer resumed his seat while the big man moved to stand behind the counter.

  What? Lottie whispered as Palmer touched a finger to his lips.

  The man when he returned placed one shoe on the empty chair seat and payed out the bills on the tabletop.

  Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty. He produced a pencil and drew a crude map on the back of his checkpad and placed it atop the banknotes.

  You tell Mary Jane I’m the one that sent you.

  Palmer lifted the stack and squared it and folded it into his shirt pocket.

  Much obliged, cousin.

  I assume you’ve got some kind of paper on that horse?

  Palmer looked at Lottie. Well, he said, we did, of course. Only thing is, it got burnt up in that fire I was tellin you about.

  The man nodded gravely. He turned to Lottie, resting a thick, pink hand on her shoulder.

  I’m terribly sorry for your loss, miss. My mother passed on this year as well.

  The rental when they found it was more shed than guesthouse, the floorplanks cupped and gapped and the open stud walls nested with skeins of feathery dust. The window glazing rattling in its sashes as the door swung closed behind them.

  Lord knows, it isn’t much, the woman said, snatching at a strand of floating cobweb. We don’t rent it in the winter, of course. But there’s a flush toilet and a tub through here, and a closet.

  There was a bedstead as well, bare springs under thin cotton ticking, plus a sink and a small eating table. The woman drew a line in the dust with her finger.

  I wasn’t expecting to show it so soon. I’ll send one of the girls down to sweep it out this afternoon. She glanced at Lottie and smiled. And bring some clean linens, of course.

  Palmer turned to the window, which looked onto the back lawn and the main house beyond.

  The woman spoke to his back. Are you by any chance kin to Lawrence Palmer? He’s our county sheriff, you know.

  Palmer turned. The woman was broad and potato-faced, with large hands and clear, unblinking eyes. Her age was sixty, or eighty. She wore a white cotton apron over her housedress, and her steel-gray hair was upswept and tightly bound.

  Could be, ma’am. My granddaddy and my uncle, they was both Texas Rangers. He winked at Lottie. We Palmers got a long history with the law.

  Why then, you’ll have to meet my Will. The woman beamed, turning toward the door. He was count
y sheriff as well.

  Palmer soon lapsed into a familiar pattern of gambling and drinking and sleeping past noon, of midnight suppers and afternoon breakfasts, and so was a stranger to Lottie’s routine of rising with the sun and retching into the rusted toilet before heading outside to her chores.

  The scrawny bay, which Palmer called Shithead or Shitface, but which Lottie had named Henry, became her chief confidant and confessor. He greeted her each morning, nickering at her approach, and he listened patiently to her ramblings as she busied herself currying and brushing his new summer coat and combing his mane and tail and picking the red-earth packing from his feet. Then, before filling his water and gathering his morning hay, she always stood before him, and Henry always stepped close to her and pressed his great oblong face into her shirtfront. Standing perfectly still. Breathing softly, as though smelling somehow her unborn child and remembering in the smell of it some other, former life.

  As June bled into the withering heat of July, the slow dissipation of Jimmy Palmer was increasingly noted and remarked upon, both in the household of their tenancy and in the Blanding community in genreal. Incidents large and small grew both in frequency and amplitude, culminating in the Pioneer Day raid on a floating pitch game for which the locals fingered Palmer, who vowed to recoup his resulting court fine by any means necessary.

  And so their landlady’s offers to commend the Texas cowboy to her husband, who was off tending cattle on his summer range, waned and abated, and then ceased altogether. As did the social invitations once extended, and the pleasantries once passed, and eventually, even the rudimentary courtesies of that small and close-knit Mormon township.

  On a Saturday evening in late July a knock sounded, and the door to the guesthouse swung wide, and Lottie looked up from her sewing to find their landlady in the doorway with her hair down and her housedress gathered tightly at her throat. Her eyes moving from the dirty-clothes pile to the dirty horse tack to the dirty dishes piled in the dirty sink, settling at last on the dirty girl, who sat thin and alone amid the manly squalor in a forlorn parody of adulthood.