by Sarah Black
His grandfather shook his head. “No, son, I don’t believe you have.”
He looked at me. “What do you mean, cut my cord?”
“Fond as I am of Marty Robbins, I don’t believe I care to listen to his music for seven hours straight.”
“It’s okay, don’t worry. We’re nearly ready for Santana.”
“Jesse….” I stared at him. He looked clueless, slightly deranged. I looked over at the old man for help.
He held up his hands. “I don’t know what to tell you, son. He’s not right in his mind, not when he gets going like this. It’s always been his way.”
“Jesse, you want to take a break and ride with me back to Lajitas? Get the boots?”
“Oh, I can’t stop now.”
I looked at The Original. “Would you like to take a ride?”
He shook his head. “You’ve been concentrating hard on Devil Dogs. Why don’t you get out of here for a bit? Go get your boots. If you have a mind to run into Alpine, I could ask you to pick us up some groceries.”
“Can you get some strawberries? Or blueberries if they don’t have strawberries.” Jesse was yawning behind his hand.
“Sure.” I studied his face. “Jesse, go take a break and lay down for a while. You look tired.”
The Original put his hand on the back of Jesse’s neck, but he was looking at me. “It’s hard to take that uniform off some days, isn’t it, Staff Sergeant? I can see how you were, taking care of your men. Jesse, when do you plan on going back to San Francisco?”
“I don’t know. Once I get the Grievous Angel done, I’m going to send it up, let Sammy get started on his deal. Marketing and whatnot.”
I felt a little like I’d been turned into a pillar of salt, Lot’s wife staring with longing at something she had lost for all time. Oh, right, right. He was going back to San Francisco. Like, going back to the place he lived. There had been no talk about him taking me with him.
“Have you thought about staying down here with us for a time?”
He shook his head. “I can’t, Granddad, but thanks. Too much happening up there in my world. I can’t be gone for too long or they’ll forget who I am.” He bent his head over his eggs, didn’t seem to notice the way The Original was looking at me.
The old man stood up and got the coffeepot, refilled my cup. His hand dropped down onto my shoulder. “Son, I hate to see you getting in over your head. He’s the same person he was when he was six years old, willful and spoiled rotten. I don’t suppose he’s gonna change now. Take a little break, go into town. Blow some of this Marathon dust off your boots.”
I nodded, glancing briefly up into his face. Jesse had missed our entire exchange, his face clouded with fatigue. He scooped the last of the eggs into his mouth, held out his coffee cup for a refill, and then scooted his chair back. “I’m gonna work just a little bit longer.” He stared at me, his eyes running over my face, and I swear, for a moment, he looked at me like he didn’t know who I was.
The Original sat down at the table with me. “I don’t know what to say to you, son.”
“I didn’t mean to… well. I’m sure it’s uncomfortable for you, with him and me carrying on like this.”
“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before, Lorenzo.”
Ouch. My stomach twisted down into a knot.
“I feel like I’ve pulled you into this situation without you knowing what you were getting into, and when it breaks down, like it always does… I don’t want to ruin your chance. For Devil Dog. You’ve started something fine, Lorenzo. That work used to be more important to you than anything else.”
He sighed, rubbed his forehead. “That boy wouldn’t hurt you for the world. You must know that. But he’s got to have the freedom to circle his sun. Nothing comes between him and that crazy art of his, and everybody who has ever tried to turn his face away, even for a little while, has ended up hurt. He can’t help who he is. And he’s never been in the USMC, so he hasn’t developed the habit of doing what you tell him to do.” He lifted his cup, took a long drink. “Lorenzo, forgive me if I’m out of line here, but I didn’t get the impression you were real experienced with this sort of thing. Romance, love, whatever.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Can I ask you how you planned to proceed with this relationship?”
“With Jesse? I… I planned to just take no prisoners. You know, forge ahead with confidence.”
He nodded. “The thing about love, though. It can swallow you whole. It can take the passion you have in every part of your life and suck you dry until you got nothing left inside. I’m not calling you off the boy. Don’t misunderstand me. I can see the way he feels about you, and you aren’t shy about letting him know how you feel. But I want you to think about giving this thing a little space. Give yourself a blast zone.”
“So I’ll be injured, not killed, when things go wrong. I mean, if things go wrong.”
He nodded. “Where are you in your work?”
“I’ve got my platoon, their names, and the first narrative started. I’m thinking about investing in some better computer equipment. A good printer and one of those big Macs with all the graphics packages.”
“We could ride into town in a couple of days, see what they have at the computer store. You show me your first couple of days before you go? And I’ll make up a grocery list.”
Out in the studio, Los Lonely Boys still held the floor, and I had to laugh at Jesse singing along in Spanish. I sketched out the first panel of the first comic, wrote the characters’ names at the bottom, and signed it. This would be for Gary down in Lajitas. Maybe I could take him out for a beer, ask him to tell me about Jesse. No question the old man was right and I was in over my head, but I could tread water. I knew how to swim with the big scary sharks. The key was you had to pretend you were as big as they were.
I gathered up the pages, stuck my head on Jesse’s side of the studio. “Hey, come kiss me good-bye.”
He looked up, a little frown between his eyes, then he smiled, and his face had that wild and sweet beauty that sent my heart into a slow stumble. He put down his palette, held my face in his hands. Then he kissed me, just a little off center, kissed the corner of my mouth, then my chin and my nose and each closed eye, and then he went back to my mouth. “Don’t forget my strawberries, zo-zo.”
In the house, I put the cartoons on the kitchen table, and the Original came over and studied them. He touched a finger to the title, Devil Dogs at War. “Why’d you decide to use this title?”
“I want to keep this narrative comic separate from what I’ve done before, and might still want to do—some one-off’s, light humor. And it’s a bit more descriptive. These boys,” I pointed to my platoon, “they’re always going to be at war.”
He was rubbing his chin. “It might put some people off at first, but I think you’re right. When we talk about sending these out, that’s when I can help you a bit more. We want to be very specific in those first markets.” He studied the strip some more. “Lorenzo… you don’t have any girls. They let girls in the Corps now, you know. I think maybe you need a girl in your platoon.”
Oh, shit. “Yeah, they sure do. I’ll be thinking on that on the way to Lajitas. You got the list? You need anything from the bootmaker?”
He shook his head and handed me the list, written on a small piece of yellow legal paper. Steaks. Eggs. Coffee. Bisquick. 2 cans of beans. Bag of rice. Then, in a different hand, Strawberries. Skim milk. A box of Great Grains with pecans. Bok choy. Cilantro. Small wedge of Stilton. I sat down and added my list. Apples. Lettuce. Carrots. Tortillas. Cheddar Cheese. Salsa. Whole grain bread. I looked up at The Original. “I think we’re ready to go.”
“Better wash the paint off your face.”
I went into the bathroom. Jesse had left smudges of Bathtub Mary Blue on my cheek.
Chapter Nine
MY PACK of running dogs followed the truck a few hundred yards out of town, then they gave up and lay down in the dust next
to the road. I turned on the radio, laughed when Gram and Emmy Lou started singing about the grievous angels. The drive was long and dusty, and I missed having Jesse next to me, but it was a pretty drive, in a lonesome cowboy sort of way, and I had always enjoyed solitude.
Gary was at work in his sweet-smelling shop, working saddle soap into the leather reins of a saddle on his workbench. “Maryboy!” He looked behind me. “You didn’t bring JC3 the boy-wonder with you?”
“I couldn’t drag him out of the studio.”
“Yeah, he’s a monster talent. I’m sure the gallery owners and the museum folks would like to just lock him in and slip paint and brushes under the door. He painted me, did I tell you that?”
I shook my head. “Down here, or up in San Francisco?”
“I was in San Francisco. Sitting on the steps of a bookstore in the Castro. I can’t say I was happy about it at first, ’cause he painted me looking so pathetic and lonely. But there is no use arguing with Jesse about art. It took me awhile to realize I was sitting on the steps of the wrong bookstore if I was looking for girls. Have you met Sam?”
“Is that the old boyfriend? No, Jesse and me, we met down here. I haven’t seen him in his San Francisco skin.”
“It’ll make you sick, the way men fawn all over him. I swear, he could get a blow job every ten minutes, just walking down the street. And it’s not just his pretty face. He’s got something. Something rich inside, and people see him, and they want to use him to fill up their own emptiness.”
He stood up, pulled a box down from the shelf. “You’re gonna love your boots.” He put a hand on my arm, and I could feel the warmth of his skin and the calluses on his palm. “Sam may be the old boyfriend, but I’m not sure he knows that. They seem to swing apart, then swing back together. Sam still handles most of his sales. I mean, if I ditched an old boyfriend, I would want to make sure he didn’t have access to my checking account. You know what I’m saying?”
The boots were so beautiful I felt my mouth go dry, looking at them. The croc was rough and nobbly leather, and the shaft was thick, the Cavalry design embossed in the leather. I pulled them on, walked around the shop a bit. “I’m not going to take these off for the next fifty years, I promise.”
“You can just tell anybody who asks you where you got them to come on down to Lajitas. When you’re a famous cartoonist, that is, and people start staring at your clothes.”
“Hey, that reminds me. I’ve got something for you.” I went out to the truck while he rang up the sale and ran my credit card. I handed him the drawing. “This is the first panel for the new comic, Devil Dogs at War.”
He looked at it, grinning, and then looked up at me. “You already know you’re gonna make it, don’t you? You haven’t left any room to fuck it up.” He reached out and shook my hand. “Thanks, Lorenzo Maryboy. I’m glad I had the chance to make your boots. And thanks for this. You’re strong inside, like Jesse. I can see that in you. I hope you two make it.”
“Thanks, man. I have every intention of being with him for as long as these boots hold out.”
He laughed at that. “Bring them back to me anytime you need to get a new sole. Oh, wait, I’ve got the riata Jesse wanted for his painting.” He brought a paper bag out of the back and I looked inside. It was a braided rope, made out of some kind of leather. “Braided rawhide,” he said. “Tell him keep it as long as he needs it.”
I SPENT a few hard miles on the way to Alpine, thinking about what Gary had said. About Sam not knowing he was the old boyfriend. What was Jesse doing? Did Sam still have control over his money? That was a dangerous way to go. I had a feeling Jesse just let this old boyfriend take care of everything so he wouldn’t have to worry about it, and he could just paint. Which would probably work fine, as long as Sam had the notion there was still a chance for them to get back together. What would Sam do when he realized I was in the picture? What would Jesse do? When he realized I wasn’t going away? It was true he was older, more experienced, had known more men than I had. He was slicker than pig shit. It was true I was probably in over my head, and my current plan, to just make it happen by sheer force of will, might very well backfire. But I didn’t know what else to do.
“Make it so,” I said, quoting Captain Jean-Luc Picard and pointing down the long, dusty road back to Marathon. “Failure is not an option.” I wondered if a street map of San Francisco would look anything like the Borg.
I got back about midnight, and the lights were off in the studio. I washed a couple of strawberries, set them beside Jesse’s bed. He was sleeping like a baby seal that had been clubbed in the head. I wondered if The Original had drugged his coffee.
The house was still asleep when I got up and went for my run, but there was coffee brewing in the kitchen by the time I got back. I jumped in the shower, noticed a stack of clean boxers and T-shirts on the little dresser in my room. Somebody had done laundry while I was out roaming the back roads of West Texas. Jesse was in the kitchen, looking into the cabinets. “I got everything on your list, including bok choy, which the grocery store had labeled as collard greens.”
“Thanks, Mary. I ate two sweet strawberries this morning before I even got out of bed.”
“Gary sent you something, a riata. Some sort of a rawhide whip, or rope. I’ve got it down in my room.”
I brought the bag back, set it on the kitchen table, and he pulled it out and looked at it. “Will you do me a favor?”
“Probably.”
“I want to take a picture of this wrapped around your waist. Can we do that this morning? It’s for the Grievous Angel.”
“Sure.”
“Let’s have cereal with berries, okay?”
“I think it’s your turn to cook, and I’ll take whatever you want to feed me.” I sat down at the table, unfolded the paper, turned to the comics.
He looked over at me, gave me a little pinch next time I looked up. “How was Gary?”
“Good. He told me you painted him looking lonely and miserable on the steps of a bookstore in the Castro.”
“He was one sad little puppy, let me tell you. Kept looking around, wondering where all the girls were.”
“He said Sam might not realize he’s the old boyfriend.”
“What?”
“Is he still managing your money, Jesse?”
“Yes, he is.” And that’s none of your business. He didn’t say it, but his eyes were suddenly pissed off. “You can be a big-balls devil dog in the bedroom all you want, Mary, but you’re not running the rest of my life.”
“Are you two living together?”
“No, I told you we split up. Why? You have a reason not to believe me?”
“I never slept with three in a bed before. I thought he might not like it if I kicked him in the head in the middle of the night. With my new cowboy boots.”
“The boots are done? Oh, let me see.” Jesse ran back down the hall, came back with the boots, singing that old Nancy Sinatra classic and walking the boots through the air. I thought he was doing a pretty good job of avoiding my question, and I decided to let it go. Have some strawberries in my cereal and enjoy the morning.
Jesse poured a couple of bowls of cereal, sliced up the strawberries, and put half on his cereal and half on mine. Then he sat down on my lap and ate his berries, and then he ate mine. One after the other, right out of my bowl, looking right into my eyes with a don’t fuck with me look on his pretty face. Then he hopped off, poured the skim milk, and handed me a cup of coffee and a spoon.
Interesting. So, if I bring up Sam before breakfast, I can expect to get my strawberries taken away. He rinsed the bowls in the sink when we were done eating. “Come on, grab your boots and your whip, cowboy. We’ve got work to do.”
He put me up against one of the blank canvases. I tried to get a look at what he’d been working on, the Grievous Angel, but he had it covered with a long piece of butcher paper. “I’m trying to keep the dust off,” he said, seeing my look. “As fast as the acrylic dries
out here, it still gets dust in the paint when the wind blows too hard. Mary, when you got that shrapnel in your chest, do you remember what it looked like?”
“Yeah, I do. Black metal, and the edges looked twisted, almost ripped. It wasn’t shiny, more like a dull black matte.” I closed my eyes. “The weird thing was it was smoking.”
“What?”
“The metal was hot. I could see the smoke rising, and it sort of burned the edges of the wounds. That’s why I didn’t bleed to death. The other guys were screaming, because the metal had fallen on them, burned their skin. But I looked down and all these pieces, they were sticking out of me, and the steam was rising.”
He was sitting in his chair, pale down to his lips. “Jesus.”
“Okay, so what do you want me to do? Put it around my shoulder?”
He shook his head. “You need to strip down. The riata around your waist. And your boots. Your tattoo, the one on your arm. Can you see it if your arms are stretched out like this?”
I pulled my T-shirt off, stretched my arms out, then put my hands behind my head.
“Okay, good.” He was taking pictures of my upper arms. “Jeans off, and let’s see how the riata looks.”
I pulled off my jeans, then put the cowboy boots back on and wound the riata around my waist. He stood there, one hand on his hip. “Is this the way you wanted it?”
He pointed at my boxers. “I think you forgot something.”
“Jesse, for Christ’s sake!”
“The rawhide needs to be against your beautiful brown stomach, zo-zo. That’s why I picked it out. The Grievous Angel is not wearing striped poplin boxers.”
“If you sell nude photos of me wearing cowboy boots and a whip, I’m going to have the shortest career as a cartoonist in the history of the world.”
“Oh, the hat! I almost forgot the hat. Don’t be silly, Mary. Nothing I do is going to hurt your career.”
He handed me an old US Cavalry hat, which I shoved on my head, then I stepped out of my boxers. “Shit.”