Peter stared at Owen. “Oh, sure. Show up after all this time, and expect to take the reins like nothing happened. Red is my horse. You abandoned him.”
“I seem to recall that I asked you to take care of him, not to be his owner. Believe me, I came as quickly as I could. Only reason I headed here first was to gain employment. That’s what I was doing until you jumped me. You were a punk when I left you, Peter. Breaks my heart to see that you haven’t changed in that respect.”
“I’m a punk? You’re ten times worse than that. You’re, you’re—,” he sputtered, searching for the term he wanted.
Owen cleared his throat. “I recall you once referring to me as a Bonanza extra. I have yet to hear an unkinder remark, so why don’t we leave it at that?”
“No way, dude. You’ve put on weight. You could pass for Hoss on Bonanza now. So where the hell were you?”
“Prison.”
Peter whistled. “Prison, whoa.”
“When did you get your ears fixed?”
“Recently. So, Hoss, did you ever intend to contact my mom?”
Owen slid the molar into his shirt pocket. “’Course I do. I had to get myself squared away first. Namely, a job, so I can buy the gas to drive to Blue Dog to find her.”
“Too late, asshole.”
Owen’s face fell. “What do you mean? Oh, Lord. She didn’t pass away, did she? Or worse—did she move back to California?”
Skye wanted to slap the smirk off Peter’s face.
“Nope. She’s right across town. But last night I couldn’t sleep, so I got up and messed around on her computer. She bookmarked all these sites on MS. Then I found the pamphlets. I confronted her. She’s sick. Show up now and it’ll look like a pity fuck.”
“Don’t use profanity in front of my daughter,” he said.
Peter forced a laugh. “She swears worse than I do! Pack your shit and hit the road, Hoss. Last thing my mom needs is another round with you.”
“You shut your pie hole or I’ll shut it for you,” Skye said. “My dad works here, you don’t.”
In the quiet that followed, Skye noticed that the construction workers had stopped hammering and sawing to watch the fight. All but one had bet on Peter to win from the looks of things, because everyone was handing one guy their ten-dollar bills. The guy who’d bet on Owen, a tall blond fellow rocking a sleeveless T-shirt, was raking in the dough. He saw her looking and wolf-whistled at her. “If you value your nuts, you won’t do that again,” she said, loud enough for them all to hear. His buddies all laughed and turned to go back to work.
From the barn came a whinny. Both her dad and Peter turned to look at the same time, nearly cracking heads. “He’s got more muscle on him than I’ve ever seen,” Owen said. “What were you feeding him?”
“Alfalfa pellets,” Peter said. “He lost a couple teeth and that was it for hay. I put him on senior feed and vitamin supplements. He really likes a hot bran mash and massage.”
“Well, who doesn’t?” Owen said, and laughed. “I guess I owe you a pretty penny for all that. I hope I can reimburse you over time. Five hundred dollars a month work for you?”
Peter’s frown returned. “I’ll say it again, Hoss. You don’t owe me a dime because Red is my horse. I’ve been caring for him for ten years, and I’m not giving him back.”
Owen stood up. “In the Bible, King Solomon suggested that two women claiming to be the mother of the same baby should settle their problem by cutting the baby in half. The true mother backed out of that deal. So I guess that means you can keep Red,” Owen said. “Since I’d hate for anything to harm my horse.”
Peter laughed. “Don’t try to pull that Jedi shit on me.”
Owen chuckled, and Skye listened to his laugh: He sounded like Wilford Brimley, who did the diabetes commercials.
“Are we done fighting?” he asked Peter. “How about we revisit this issue at a later date? May I please have your mother’s telephone number? And her address?”
“No.”
The yellow Land Cruiser pulled up. Joe reached his hand out the window, handing a bag of ice and a six-pack of Coke to Skye. “They only had black licorice, so I didn’t get any. No more punches?”
“Not a one,” she said. “I think they’re both tired out.”
“Then I’ll be heading home. Owen, glad to have you on board. Fill out those papers I left on the desk. Skye, there’s a waiver for you, too. I’ve left two keys and the gate code. Owen, see you tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” Owen said. “Peter? Her address, phone number?”
Peter shook his head, then seemed to think better of it. “You know what? Whatever reception you get you deserve. We might as well get this over with so we can get on with life. Follow me.”
Owen turned to Skye. “Honey? You mind driving? I can’t see much out of this eye.”
“Daddy, put some ice on it, for crying out loud. You should go to the ER and get an X-ray.”
“I’ve been in enough fights to tell when I need medical help. I’m fine.”
Peter walked toward another Land Cruiser, Skye noticed. Santa Fe was lousy with these cars. Up came the wind again, blowing grit around. She wanted to take a bath in lotion.
“Please reconsider, Daddy.”
“No way. This here is my bargaining chip. I fully intend to let it bloom. That way Margaret can see there’s not a mark on her son.”
Peter turned around. “You’re senile. My mom is going to take one look at your mangy old ass and shut the door in your face.”
“We’ll see about that. Accept the consequences for your actions, Peter. Same lesson you were learning ten years ago. Haven’t gotten too far, have you?”
“Do you need to stop at Denny’s for the early bird special, now that you’re a senior citizen?”
Owen smiled.
“Daddy, are you going to let him get away with that?” Skye said.
“It’s all right, Skye,” he said, patting her icy hand. “One day he’ll learn that no one escapes Father Time. Black eyes fade. Teeth, however, can’t be put back in.” He hollered out, “Your mom will make you pay for my dental visit.”
Peter yelled back, “Doubtful! I’ll bet you ten dollars she’s madder at you than me.”
“Ten dollars? Be serious. How about we bet Red? Whoever wins keeps the horse.”
“No way!” Peter hollered. He pointed at the heeler, wagging the stub of his tail. “I still don’t believe that’s the same dog.”
Owen yelled back, “What are the odds of me having two heelers with three legs in one lifetime?”
“With your lifestyle? I’d think pretty good.”
“I think I liked you better when your ears were busted. What kind of flowers does she like?”
“Flowers? Seriously? As in, ‘Sorry it’s been ten years, here’s some daisies’?”
“Roses,” Skye said. “White or pink ones. Red is tacky.”
Peter looked at her dad with a smirk. “If I lose you, take Cerrillos toward the Railyard. Make a left on Guadalupe. Turn right on Paseo de Peralta, and head up Canyon Road. Then look for Ave de Colibri. It’s number 105.”
Skye looked at her father. “Number 105? We were standing there yesterday. Right next door. Where you had the hallucination.”
“It wasn’t a hallucination, Skye. I saw that Indian girl as clear as I’m seeing you now.”
“Well, you also just got punched in the head, so that’s not a real strong argument.”
“Can we just go, please?”
Peter slammed his car door and started his engine.
It had been quite some time since Skye had driven a column shifter. She stalled the truck twice but got it on the third try.
“If I ever needed a drink, today would be the day,” he said.
Skye shifted into third. “If you get one, then I do, too.”
“Am I an idiot to bring her flowers?”
“You’d be an idiot if you didn’t. We’ll stop at Trader Joe’s before we see this mysterious Margaret. When
I lived here, they had the best flowers.”
Owen said, “Her son isn’t worth two shits, but she is really something.”
“So why didn’t you write to her from prison, you jackass?”
“Haven’t we been through all that?”
“Daddy? Let me ask you something. How often do you want a drink?”
“Every day of my life.”
That was extremely disappointing news. Skye sighed and drove toward Cordova, where Trader Joe’s was located. The wind was blowing trash across the road, empty McDonald’s wrappers and plastic bags. There really wasn’t anything else to say.
Chapter 9
While Peter and Owen were reacquainting themselves, Margaret was clearing out the casita for Peter. She raised her arms above her head and leaned forward to stretch her back. She blew out a breath, surprised at how tired she was after opening only one box. She’d been there since breakfast, trying to make sense of the space while Peter was out riding RedBow. Ellie had put these boxes in storage before she got sick. When she died, Margaret had cleaned out her rental space, canceled the contract, and moved the boxes out to the casita, since the house had no garage, only a carport. They were stacked three deep, and no matter how many Margaret moved, it seemed there was always another one behind the last. She had the overwhelming urge to get rid of them without opening a single one. Professional organizers say that if you haven’t used something in a year, you don’t need it. But what if she missed something special? Something that could change one’s mind about life? Ellie had lived into her eighties. She’d been through the Second World War and had traveled the globe long enough to pick up some treasures. Margaret decided to keep looking.
“I promise I’ll spend the day helping you clean out the casita,” Peter had told her that morning, after he blew up over her diagnosis. He was unloading all his stress, especially the divorce stress, on a handy target. “I want to ride Red,” he’d finally said, “and then I have a few errands to run.” A good idea, Margaret thought, time to cool down. But these errands must have taken him to Timbuktu, because hours had passed and he still wasn’t back. Worse, she’d found another wine bottle in the trash this morning, so his drinking wasn’t just a onetime thing. Wine wasn’t water except in the Bible, and the concept of “hers” seemed to be lost on him. At some point, they’d have to talk about it, but she wasn’t sure he could handle any more bad news in one day.
He’d been using her computer and had looked at her browser history. He left a tab open, a medical site that discussed treatment options for people with MS, and when she saw what he’d found, she knew there was nothing to do but talk about it.
At first, he’d refused to look at her. Then he got angry. “Why in the hell did you not tell me about this?” he said. “How long have you known?”
“I was diagnosed the day before you called to tell me you were coming home,” she said. “I’ve barely had time to process it myself.”
“That’s wrong. Normal people would call their kids. Immediately.”
She wished she had the nerve to say, Just as normal kids undergoing surgery for a cochlear implant would call their moms. “Peter, don’t freak out,” she beseeched him instead. “I can’t bear it just now. Dr. Silverhorse said I’m in the earliest stages. Sometimes my feet get pins and needles, and occasionally I trip. I have to make sure I follow the diet and get enough rest. And avoid stress,” she added, hoping that was a big enough hint to get him to calm down.
“Mom,” he told her, “call Dad.”
“Whatever for?”
“Because he lives in California, and California has the best doctors. You’ll never find that in this place,” he said, sweeping his arm as if Santa Fe were as small as her house.
“I like my doctor,” Margaret replied. “He said there’s nothing else to do for now. At some point I’ll probably try some medicines, and I’ve already made an appointment for physical therapy. One thing I know for sure, in the future I will need physical help on a regular basis. A cleaning person, maybe even a gardener.”
“I can do that stuff for you.”
Maybe, she thought. “I can’t imagine that day will come anytime soon. But in the meantime, I’ve decided to quit driving. You can take my car. In fact, it might make sense, after the divorce, of course, to transfer it to your name.”
His eyes filled with tears. “Mom?”
She patted his hand. “Come on now, Peter. It’s not that bad, it’s just something we need to plan for eventually. Now go ride your horse, and when you get back, change into clothes you don’t care about so we can get the guesthouse clean and ready for you.”
Suddenly the emotion caught up with her, and she felt wrung out. “I need to lie down for a half hour.”
“That’s about how much time it will take me to run a few errands,” he said, and left in a massive hurry, taking his cup of coffee with him.
As soon as he went out the front door, Echo settled down across the doorway to the guest room/studio. “Fickle,” Margaret told the dog, who wagged her tail and would wait there all day for him to come back. Why should her son be any different at twenty-five from how he was at fifteen? Well, there were lots of good reasons, but Peter had never been the kind of son she could chart by consulting Dr. Spock. She woke up forty minutes later, surprised to discover that she’d slept. Maybe she needed to nap every day. But Peter wasn’t there when she woke up, and he still hadn’t returned.
Margaret pushed aside a couple of cardboard boxes. It was after eleven, and she’d skipped breakfast. Though her stomach growled, she didn’t go inside to make lunch because surely Peter would be back any moment. She called his cell phone, but it went straight to voice mail. Besides the wine issue, he had forgotten to feed Echo this morning, which was a rather inauspicious beginning to their agreement that he’d pitch in around the house. She sighed, and then she opened another box, sneezing at the dust. When Peter secured a job, should she make him pay rent? How much? Was it enabling if she didn’t? The casita seemed smaller than she remembered. But renting was a huge market in this part of Santa Fe.
Why hadn’t she rented it before now? Laziness? Or was she afraid she’d attract a psycho tenant? Or had she subconsciously kept it vacant for when her sister got tired of London? Nori did everything gung ho until the day she was utterly over it. Margaret could have turned the casita into her painting studio, but now that Peter was here, he’d be better off out here in the guesthouse, coming and going as he pleased, than he would in the main house with her. Should she make dinner for two every night? What if he brought a girl home to spend the night? Was she feeling huffy about the idea of him staying because she was settled into her own routine? Was that selfish, or just growing older?
Motherhood had never been easy. Motherhood never ended. One day a year celebrating mothers wasn’t enough. It should be the other way around, one day we don’t celebrate, 364 days we do.
When Peter contracted meningitis, she was sure she was going to lose him. He’d lain there, comatose for weeks, and the doctors weren’t optimistic. She’d read to him, played music—which she later knew hadn’t reached him because he’d already lost his hearing. Some days she just sat there staring at him, afraid if she shut her eyes, he’d stop breathing. Nothing changed until the day she sneaked Echo I, Peter’s dog, into the room and shut the door behind her. The dog was a basket case at seeing her human. She had jumped on the bed and straddled Peter, licking his face over and over. Later that day, he’d moved his hand, and his eyelids had fluttered open. He was able to track the doctor’s penlight for a full four minutes. That was when he started his journey back to the living. Margaret had made a promise to herself: She would never forget how precious Peter was, even when he was acting out or yelling at her. Now those particular chickens had come home to roost.
She opened another box filled with coffee table art books. She wasn’t up to picking through them just now, so she pushed it aside and wiped her hands on her blue jeans. Behind the box, leaning on
its side against the wall, was Aunt Ellie’s aluminum walker. It was a short-lived tool, but seeing it made Margaret’s throat close up. Should she give it away or put it aside for herself? How long would it be before she needed it?
She opened a third box. Oh, for crying out loud, it was filled with adult diapers. Surely they could be of use to someone besides her. She’d take them to the Rosemont on Galisteo, a place she wasn’t ready for and hoped she never would be. She lugged the box down the steps to the portal and set it away from the fence so Peter wouldn’t smash the gate into it when he opened it.
Tears ran down Margaret’s cheeks and she wanted to scream. Maybe age fifty was supposed to make you feel mortal. A year ago, she might have wished time would pass more quickly. Now she wanted it to slow the heck down, and for everything to stay the same, so she could catch her breath. She reminded herself that she’d had fifty good years before MS, and that was a blessing. She tried to maintain “a cheerful heart,” as Glory would say. Glory should know, with all she’d been through: losing her first husband so early, adopting those girls, the unexpected babies, health issues of her own. Glory’s husband, Joe, was in pain 24/7 from the shooting that had injured him and killed his best friend. Yet she never saw him without a smile on his face. Whenever she asked him how he was doing, his answer was, “Margaret, I’m so blessed I can’t believe it.”
Aloud, Margaret said, “In case anyone’s listening, I’m grateful Peter is here. I’m thrilled he can hear again. I hope he gets the job at his old school and finds happiness.” Then she felt silly. But while her own dreams and goals might be curtailed by the MS, her dreams for Peter would not.
Margaret ran her thumbnail down the brittle tape of box four. The gummy adhesive had dried out. What was once flexible tape had turned to brittle flakes sharp enough to cut, and naturally, she poked one of the shards below her thumbnail. Surprise, the box held more art books! In the middle of them, however, was a small gift edition of The Virginian by Owen Wister. Strange, because Ellie never read anything but British mysteries. Margaret tucked the small book into her jacket pocket. Underneath, wrapped in tissue paper and marked “keep,” there were so many letters she couldn’t count them. The stamps went from a penny postcard up to ten cents to forty-five cents. Some of the envelopes were that old airmail blue, the tissue-thin fold-and-seal kind. Some were plain envelopes, yellowed at the edges. She tucked the letters into her canvas shopping bag from Trader Joe’s. She’d look them over later. It seemed crass, but her first idea was that she could sell them on eBay. Artists were always looking for old-timey cursive writing for projects. Weird, how letters had become an artifact. Glory said they didn’t even teach cursive writing in school anymore.
Owen's Daughter Page 19