by Sarah Black
“Oh, lots of different things.” The Original stretched back in his chair, his steak nearly gone. “Holy cards, prayers, sometimes Mass cards, you know, those little cards you get when somebody says a Mass for you. If it’s a descansas, then maybe a little picture of the loved one, some tiny memorial, like a hair ribbon, or a favorite toy.”
“So they’re memorials? To somebody who’s died?”
“Not all of them. Sometimes a village will put up a shrine and everybody will use it. Jesse, are you thinking about the shrine down close to Santa Elena Canyon?”
“Yeah, but I thought it would be a nice drive, go over to the one outside Terlingua, down to Santa Elena, and there’s a new one I saw toward Alpine. We can see lots of small ones too. Granddad, I thought I would borrow your truck, let Mary get a break from driving.”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll drive. You got a good camera?”
“You know it.”
I looked at The Original. “Sir, do you want to come?”
He waved this away. “No, you boys have a good time. You want to pack a lunch before you go?”
Jesse shook his head. “Is that place still up and running in Terlingua? The one where they’re cooking out of an old Airstream?”
“I think so. But I haven’t been over there in a long time.”
“Terlingua is full of hippies and dopers and cowboys and artists,” Jesse said. “But the Marathon hippies and cowboys and artists are better. Because we don’t have any dopers.” He was grinning when he said it, then something painful hit behind his eyes, and he looked back down to his place. When he looked back up, he aimed those blue eyes at his grandfather. “Where is she?”
“Her mama’s driving her into Midlands to a clinic.”
“She left already? I didn’t get to talk to her.”
“Jesse, don’t start, okay? Just trust me that this is for the best.” We finished the steaks in silence. The Original pushed his plate away, stood up. “Boys, I’m tired. I believe I’m gonna turn in early.”
“I’ve got the dishes,” I said. Jesse stood up, and he wrapped his arms around his granddad, held him and let his head rest on the old man’s shoulder.
The Original patted him, stroked his silky hair. “Just settle down, son. You’ve got work to do now. Don’t get off track, you hear me? She knows we love her.”
After the old man went down the hall to his room, Jesse leaned against the sink, picked up a cup towel. “I’ll dry.”
I studied him, held a soapy plate in hot water for the rinse. He had gray smudges under his eyes, and there were some fine lines around his mouth. “You look tired, Jesse.”
“Yeah, I am. And I don’t want to start work tired. It’s always a bad sign.”
“We can take a day off, don’t you think? Though I haven’t done much work since I got here. I feel like all I’ve done is sit on the porch or lay on the couch. I’m used to being a lot busier.”
“Artist’s work is mostly mental, and it can be pretty exhausting. Sometimes it’s hard to turn it off. That’s how you end up riding down Burnout Trail on a broken-down old pony.”
I handed him another plate. “Riding down Burnout Trail? You’re some cowboy.”
I WOKE up early, took my run and a shower, pulled on some jeans and another T-shirt. It was my last clean T-shirt. I would have to ask The Original where the washer was. I was sitting at the kitchen table with the old man, reading the paper, when Jesse came strolling in. He was whistling “El Paso,” that old Marty Robbins song. I put down the paper, stared at him. He was wearing tobacco-brown jeans, so old the denim was soft and faded at the seams, and polished brown cowboy boots. His button-down shirt was silk, a strange green, somewhere between teal and spruce. He had a brown straw Stetson that he set down on the table. The shirt gave his eyes a bit of green, and his hair curled around his ears and down over the collar of that beautiful shirt. I think my tongue was hanging down to the table.
“Sweet Jesus.” The Original stood up, brought the coffeepot to the table. “Boy, what are you up to now?”
Jesse ran a finger down the nape of my neck. “You need a hat, son.”
He smelled good, something green and lemony, and I wondered if we were gonna get very far down the road before I lost my cool and dragged him into the bushes. Oh, wait, there were no bushes. We were in the desert. It was only teddy-bear cactus and scorpions out there. We needed to get an air mattress for the back of my truck. “Are we dressing up?”
“Nope.” He sat down at the table. “You look just right in jeans and a black T-shirt. You thought about getting a pair of boots?”
“Not very hard.”
“I’ll go with you. Make sure you get the right ones. I’ve got a friend over in Lajitas, Gary. He makes handmade boots.”
“I can’t afford anything expensive, Jesse. How about let’s get me a straw hat at the General Store and let it go at that.”
“You only need one pair for your whole life. When it’s time, you just get them resoled.”
“Well, now, that’s true. A fine pair of boots is good for a lifetime.” The Original joined the discussion, slid a cup of coffee across the table to Jesse.
“When you’re a famous cartoonist, people will be begging you to wear their handmade boots.” He stretched his feet out. “Like these.”
They were gorgeous, beautifully classic handmade boots, the brown leather rich and shiny with polish. Jesse pulled up the edge of his jeans under the table so I could see the shaft. A naked cowboy, from the back, a holster and six-gun slung over his curvy butt. He shoved the cuff back down.
“Nice.”
“I’ve got an idea for yours. Black crocodile, and smooth leather on the vamp, with a pair of crossed six-guns. I’ve already drawn it. You know that symbol, the rope and the crossed six-guns the US Cavalry used to wear on their hats? About the time they were rounding the Navajo up for the Long Walk? I thought that might be a good symbol on a pair of fine, shit-kicking boots for a USMC Navajo warrior.”
I grinned at him.
“Just look at them before you decide, okay?”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll look at them. What happened to the Bathtub Marys?”
“They’re on our way.”
We walked around the back of the house, where my truck was parked, and I pulled him into my arms, buried my face in his lemony neck. Just that fast, and my cock was knocking hard at my Levi’s, wanting to be let out.
Jesse was laughing, but he slid his arms around my waist, pressed close enough he could feel my cock. He caught his breath. “You’re a raging bull in the morning? I’ll have to remember that.”
“Did you dress up for me or your boyfriend the bootmaker?”
Jesse gave me a slow grin, sharp as cold tequila, unsnapped my Levi’s and filled his hand with my cock faster than I could draw a breath. He squeezed, then gave a hard stroke. He looked up into my eyes, his own a swirly mixture of stormy blue and the green reflected from his shirt. “You want to fuck me?” I could feel the breath choking off in my throat. I couldn’t have spoken if my dick was on fire. Which it felt like it was, actually. “It’s all for you, zo-zo. I’m gonna spend all day keeping you on a slow boil. Then tomorrow we can have a slumber party out in our own Paris on the Rio Grande, okay?”
Speech was way beyond me, and he leaned over, pushed my foreskin back, planted a slick little kiss on the head. “Come on, Mary, let’s roll. We’ve got a lot to do before you can lay me down.”
I wasn’t sure the couches were going to do the job. Up against the wall, maybe, or on the floor, or…. I buttoned my jeans with some difficulty and climbed into the truck. Jesus. I didn’t think I could keep up with him.
“Okay, where to first, cowboy?”
WE PULLED the truck off the road a couple miles out of town toward Big Bend. The shrine was small, a glass and wooden case painted white, and the picture of the Virgin inside had been cut out of a magazine and glued to a piece of cardboard stuck in the back. “These are the shrines that belo
ng to the poor people,” Jesse said, getting his camera ready. “They probably get the most work, prayer-wise.” The inside of the little box was filled with prayer cards, small pieces of paper with handwritten prayers or wishes, some soaked by the rain, the ink faded and the paper warped. There was a little graduation picture taped to the Virgin’s robe, a pretty dark-haired girl with her hair up and a string of pearls around her neck. The ground surrounding the box had glass votive candles and a tiny bunch of yellow plastic flowers, like buttercups.
I got my camera out, took some pictures. We climbed back in the truck, and Jesse pointed me south and west. “This next one is something different.”
It was big, for one thing, the Virgin a plaster model nestled inside an old, claw-foot bathtub half buried in the ground. “This is why they call them Bathtub Marys?”
The votive candles were there, maybe ten pictures, mostly of young boys and girls, and the prayer cards and flowers. The Virgin was a beautiful model, with the traditional pale blue robes draping her shoulders and puddling at her bare feet. She had a beautiful, serene face, her eyes turned to heaven, while the worldly flotsam and chaos fell away beneath her.
Jesse put his camera away. “Okay, the next one is over near Terlingua. It’s the Hollywood hippie Virgin. That’s the one I really want to see. It’s got this big wood structure, painted bright pink and orange, cantaloupe orange, and it has ruffles around the edges.”
“Ruffles? Are you shitting me?”
“Nope.”
“That’s your favorite?”
“It’s got a weirdly quirky charm, for a piece of American kitsch. Like it needs to be on Route 66 with the Wigwam Motel and the largest ice cream cone in America. I need to reacquaint myself with the colors of Mexican folk art. I’m going to use the colors of the Bathtub Marys for the backgrounds of the cowboy angels. I just need to look at them again, remind myself how the colors look under the sun in the middle of the day. If I was a praying man? I would pray to that sweet one we looked at first. She looks like she knows what to do with a prayer. But if I do feel the need to drop to my knees and pray, I sure hope you’re standing right in front of me, so I can say a prayer to your pretty brown cock.” He grinned at the look on my face, slid his hands down my thigh and squeezed. “You’re so big and strong, zo-zo.”
“I think you just proved that God isn’t Catholic, or we would have been struck down dead in the road.”
Jesse shook his head. “No way. We’ve been under the protection of the Lady all morning. She appreciates boys with good hearts.”
It was an hour to Terlingua, and the road was empty, the land filled with cactus and the strange creosote bush and a few scrubby plants with thin dry leaves. “You should see it after it rains,” Jesse said. “It’s like the black and white version of the movie just got colorized. Everything turns bright green, and little white and yellow flowers open. The air smells clean, and those little flowers on the creosote bush smell… I don’t know how to describe it. Like a lemon astringent, maybe. Clean, with a little bite. I’ve never smelled it anywhere else but down here.”
I reached over, tugged him closer. I wished he could scoot over, snuggle up against me and let me smell his neck. Nobody could drive like that anymore, though, with their baby in their arms. Seatbelts and bucket seats. And he wasn’t my baby. I kept sort of pretending he was, but he was just visiting here, he had a life back in San Francisco, and vacation romances didn’t count. Did they? I wasn’t sure I even knew the rules of this game. Relationships were different from knocking one off in the showers. But I wanted to put my arms around him, pull him up close, and let him be my baby.
“Jesse, you got a boyfriend back in San Francisco?”
He wrapped our hands together until our fingers were twined. “No. I had somebody, but we broke it off a couple of months ago. That was Sam. He owns a gallery in the Castro.”
“Was that your gallery?”
“One of them. I never wanted to be a one-trick pony. I spread the work around. But that’s where the cowboy angels are going.”
“Were you guys together a long time?”
“A couple of years. And my dear, don’t you know, two years in San Francisco is like two light-years anywhere else.”
“How come?”
He was still a moment, thinking. “The whole city is sexualized, like a big theater stage, and we’re all prancing around, being beautiful for each other.” He shrugged. “I mean, I love it, it’s brash, and full of life and beautiful boys, and people get excited about orange high-top sneakers and the days are filled with drama and heartbreak and…. But it’s just a stage, and it took me awhile to realize I had to get out sometimes, so I could keep a sense of perspective. So I can still love it for the color and the light and the beautiful boys, but not confuse it with anything real or lasting.”
I stared out through the windshield. He was so smart. Did he even realize it? He was so busy playing the pretty gay artist boy, did he know what it was like for me, to be around him when he was thinking? He was going to drop to his knees in front of my brown dick, and I was going to drop to my knees in front of his beautiful brain.
“It’s not just that I want to bend you over and fuck you till the cows come home, Jesse, but I also want to eat your brain raw, with both hands.” He was laughing, brought our joined fists up to his mouth for a kiss. “You wouldn’t mind that, would you? If I ate your brain? I bet it tastes sweet.”
“You’ve got to fuck me first, though, and then eat my brains, because otherwise it’s one of those zombie deals….”
I had the whole cartoon in my mind then, but it was obscene and disgusting and too funny for publication. I would have to draw it for Jesse, eyes only, when I got some time alone in the studio.
“I’m crazy about you.”
“What about you, my little zo-zo? Did you ever have somebody special?”
I shook my head. “Too busy working.”
“I’ve heard that excuse before from men who were just shy, but I actually think it’s true in your case. You joined the Marines right out of high school?”
“I studied art at Dine College, two years. But I was itching for some real work. Marine Infantry. Two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. Training in between.”
“So you’re twenty-five, twenty-six?”
“Just turned twenty-seven. You?”
“I’m twenty-nine,” Jesse said. “I knew you were just a baby. I’ll have to teach you everything I know. And I’ll make it as long and slow as I possibly can.”
“I’ll be looking forward to that.”
The third Bathtub Mary was just like Jesse had described—big and garish, the edges made from colorful tile, with a little sparkle of gold luster. The ruffle was made of tulle, glued around the tile, and it was dusty and ragged from the wind. Mary’s backdrop was fuchsia pink, with a ring of daisies painted in bright blue and yellow and orange. Haight-Ashbury Mary. The votive candles were here—most of them hadn’t been lit—but not as many prayer cards and photographs, and no handwritten prayers. Mary was big, nearly two feet high, and she was standing over a fountain that gurgled. The fountain was tiled, and I could see some pennies in the bottom.
“Mary, do me a favor, will you?”
“Sure.”
“Let me take your picture? Pull your T-shirt off, put those big arms up behind your head.”
“Oh, please.” But he gave me a winning smile, waved his camera at me, so I peeled my shirt off and did what he wanted. He backed up, adjusted the lens until he got me and the shrine in the photo.
“What are those scars on your chest?”
I reached down, rubbed my fingers absently across my skin. “Shrapnel.”
He lowered the camera, came over to look. “They got very close to your heart, didn’t they?”
“Yeah. I was scared. I looked down, there were these pieces of metal sticking out of my chest.”
“Didn’t you guys wear vests?”
“Not when we were asleep in o
ur racks, at night.”
“Jesus.”
“No, just call me Mary.” The laughter bubbled up, like I’d meant it to, and I flashed him some pumped biceps.
A woman who had been looking at the shrine came over to us. “Would you like me to take a picture of both of you together?”
“Oh, yeah,” Jesse said, giving her the camera. “Thanks very much.”
He came over to me, leaned back against my chest, and I reached around, held him against me. I thought the women blushed a little, but she knew how to work the camera and took a couple of pictures before handing it back over with a smile.
“I read gay romance, you know. You two look very sweet together, like the cover of a novel I would like to read.”
I stood there with my mouth open while Jesse chatted with her, oozing Texas cowboy charm. I thought my role should be the strong, silent type, so I just put my shirt back on and stared off into the distance, like a Navajo warrior should.
We had lunch in Terlingua, then hit the road for the long drive into Lajitas. The country was empty, the heat shimmer rising from the desert for as far as I could see. Jesse slid his hand up and down my thigh a couple of times, settled it tucked into my groin, then he scooted his shoulder harness off and leaned his head on my shoulder. “It’s a couple of hours’ drive, but it’s worth it, I promise.”
“I’m enjoying the drive,” I admitted. “And your company.”
We came to a little town that looked like it had been built to look like an old Western town, one of those movie sound stages that were all front and nothing behind. I raised my eyebrows at the kitsch, sure we would find a very tiny and colorful Bathtub Mary around here somewhere, but Jesse just grinned and waved me to a boot and saddle-maker’s shop at the end of the row of shops. After the saddlemaker, the desert rolled away again, all the long way to the horizon.
We pushed open the door. It was cool inside, with the rich smell of leather and mink oil and saddle soap. Marty Robbins was playing real low, and a big guy with long, curly black hair was seated at a workbench, a boot upside down in front of him. He was wearing glasses and some sort of magnifying glass on a lanyard, and he held a tool that was burning designs into the leather.