The Way We Bared Our Souls

by Willa Strayhorn

  “What about you, Lo?” Kaya said.

  I’d always wanted to see a rodeo. And it just seemed like the sort of thing I should be doing now that I had my health back—and then some. But I was hung up on the fact that Kit seemed to be re-creating his history with Lucita. They’d picnicked together at Zozobra in their finery. He’d wanted to teach her how to skateboard. And now the rodeo. . . . Focus, Lo.

  “I think it sounds fun,” I said. But Thomas still seemed reluctant. “Plus,” I said, squeezing his arm, “you have to admit that it’s a better idea than the matching tattoos Kit suggested we get this morning.”

  “Just little ones,” Kit said. “On the butt or something.”

  “A rodeo’s too risky,” Thomas said.

  “The world is risky, man,” Kit said. “But you’ve got to jump in full force. Seize the day, soldier. Besides, how much trouble can we get ourselves into? It’s just a bunch of ponies running around doing pony stuff.”

  “Let’s do it,” Kaya said. “After all, I’m descended from Geronimo too. Jack Dynamite and I are probably first cousins.” She gave Ellen a challenging look, which she ignored.

  “Fine,” Ellen said. “But someone is buying my cotton candy. And we’d better get good seats, because my legs feel shaky and I don’t think I can stand up for long, no matter how good the show is.”

  “No problem,” Kit said. “I’ll make sure we get the best seats in the house.” He leaned into Ellen’s shoulder. “And I will be personally responsible for your cotton candy.”

  • • •

  We met in the parking lot after school. I’d volunteered my station wagon because it was the biggest of our fleet and I didn’t mind driving. Kit also wanted to drive, but when we put it to a vote, I won by a landslide.

  “I didn’t even know you had a car,” Ellen said.

  “It’s mostly been gathering dust,” Kit said, “but last night I took it for a starlight spin, and damn, that baby can fly. You should let me drive your Beemer sometime.”

  “That’ll be the day,” she said.

  Once we were outside town, I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Thomas staring anxiously out the window.

  “Please don’t overthink it, Thomas. It’s not like we’re going swimming with sharks or something. Just try to have a good time, okay?”

  “As long as we stay out of harm’s way,” Thomas said.

  “We’re not riding in the rodeo, silly,” I said. “Just watching.”

  “If you say so.”

  Our words were drowned out when Kit reached forward from the backseat and cranked the Rolling Stones on the stereo. Beggars Banquet blared, and we sang along with Mick. Even Thomas joined in eventually, though he only knew the words to “Sympathy for the Devil.”

  • • •

  We drove, music still blasting, but my attention now stolen by the miles of open road ahead of me. I always used to get a little nauseated when people rhapsodized about the New Mexico landscape. I’d never been one to appreciate its arid beauty. But now, as we drove across the desert, I couldn’t fill my eyes enough. I zeroed in on the delicate greens and yellows, the subdued palette that hid so much life underneath. Winging down the faded highway toward our destination, I felt as if everything, as far as my eye could see, was mine. The surrounding desert and the mesas and the mountains all belonged to me, in a way. All I had to do was plant my flag. The future was my manifest destiny.

  I turned down the volume on the stereo. “Look how much land there is,” I gushed.

  “I know,” Kit said. “Hallelujah. Land for years. Enough for everybody.”

  “I bet Jay and Dakota are out there somewhere,” I said. “Just walking along, doing shaman slash coyote stuff.”

  “Hell yeah they are,” Kit said. “You know what I think about a lot?”

  “Girls?” Ellen said. “Skateboarding? Doritos taco shells from Taco Bell?”

  “No, but related,” he said, reaching over to tug Ellen’s triple-pierced earlobe. “I think about the difficulty of negotiating these deserts on foot. But for centuries—before Lewis and Clark and all the white explorers our greedy government paid to come out here and stake its claim—that’s what the Indians did. They didn’t have horses in the New World until the Spanish introduced them in the early 1700s. And then there was no turning back. Can you imagine walking across this land, carrying everything you own?”

  Last week I couldn’t, but this week I could. I could walk to California. I could hike across the Sierra Nevada in the dead of winter. What was frostbite? What was muscle ache? What was sunburn? I touched the deer totem I’d tied around my neck, wishing it was still a stallion, then stepped on the gas pedal to pass another car on the two-lane highway.

  “Please slow down,” Thomas said from the backseat.

  “No, don’t,” Kaya said. “I like the speed.”

  “Hey,” Kit said. “Here’s a fun fact. Before the U.S. declared war on the Navajo, back when our backstabbing government was still pretending to honor the treaties it made, the American army used to socialize with the Diné tribes surrounding Fort Fauntleroy. The Navajo would actually come to the fort to eat food and trade stuff with the soldiers. They’d drink and gamble together. This is 1861, right. Start of the Civil War. So they’re all hanging out, Americans and Navajo, getting along like wildfire, and to amuse themselves, they start placing bets on whose horses can run the fastest. They set up this big race with an army guy’s undefeated horse on the American side, and a prized pony, rumored to belong to the great warrior Manuelito, on the Navajo side.”

  “Oh yeah, I’ve heard of Manuelito,” I said. “Total badass.”

  “Right. Major stud. You’d like him, Ellen. He was like Mike, but the exact opposite.”

  Ellen rolled her eyes, but I could tell she was somewhat embarrassed now by her association with Meth-Head Mike.

  “So anyway,” Kit said, “as soon as he left the starting line, the Navajo rider went awry, like totally out of bounds, and lost the race. The Indians demanded a rematch. They said the Navajo bridle had been tampered with. Of course the Americans denied it. Everyone started arguing, playing the blame game. Then a gun detonated from the fort. A soldier had shot at an Indian. And this seemed to give license to the rest of the soldiers to shoot at Indians. Anarchy broke out immediately. The unarmed Navajo scattered, but not fast enough. It was a total slaughter. Women and children trying to escape were gunned down one by one by the Americans. I don’t think their horses competed much after that.”

  The conclusion to this story was met with several moments of silence, due (at least on my part) to the unnerving fact that the upbeat tone of Kit’s voice didn’t at all reflect the facts he’d related. And he used to dissolve into pure emotion whenever he gave an oral report like this in history class. He began drumming his hands on his lap.

  “That’s a grim story,” Ellen said.

  “You’re a grim story,” Kit said. Ellen gave him the finger. “Anyway, it’s par for the course. Welcome to real Native American history.”

  I noticed Thomas fidgeting in the backseat.

  “What’s the matter?” I said.

  “Nothing,” he said. “I can just see it, is all. I’ve seen similar things back home.”

  • • •

  In the dirt parking lot outside New Mexico’s oldest rodeo grounds, fans tailgated with coolers of beer. Mini grills sizzled near the beds of pickup trucks, cooking hot dogs and corn on the cob wrapped in aluminum foil. One carload of buxom women wore T-shirts that read BUCKLE BUNNIES.

  “Rodeo groupies,” Kit said. He punched me lightly on the arm. “That will be you someday.”

  “Try rodeo rider,” I said. My fearless future stretched out before me like the land we’d just crossed to get here.

  Cowboys and Indians in stark white shirts and stiff new blue jeans swarmed the rodeo grounds. F
or a second I even thought I saw Dr. Osborn, then squealed and quickly hid my face behind Thomas. Under the rusted rodeo structure, Anglo tourists took pictures of brown-skinned children as if they were scenery. Everyone’s shoes and boots kicked up dust, so our bare skin was instantly filmed in a fine, glittering silt. Kit bought cotton candy for Ellen and for two beautiful little Mexican girls standing nearby in party dresses the same color as the candy floss. “Gracias,” they said. Their parents didn’t look happy about the gift at first, but Kit quickly charmed them. “Pero son tan bonita,” he said, “que se merecen toda la felicidad.”

  “What did you say to them?” I asked him.

  “That their daughters were angels. That they reminded me of someone.” Lucita seemed to be a living presence around him.

  On our way to the bleachers, we stopped outside a corral and watched the cowboys prepare their animals for sporting events: oiling saddles, tightening girths, and brushing their horses to a high polish.

  “Kaya,” I said, “do you remember when we used to play with plastic horses as kids? Before we got into all that esoteric stuff? I forgot how much I loved them. They’re so . . . regal.”

  “Power personified,” she said, staring.

  People were beginning to take their seats. While Kit and I wanted to get as close to the action as possible, Thomas shied away, but I grabbed him by the shirtsleeve and dragged him along.

  “Come on,” I said. “You’re going to love this.”

  Meanwhile, Ellen sulked in our wake. Her facial expression—sick and miserable, as if she wanted to throw up not just the contents of her stomach but of her entire life—made me vaguely remember what real pain felt like.

  I tried to feel what she might be feeling—she was carrying my burden, after all. But I could only get so far. It was like trying to recall a psychedelic drug experience or something. How could I remember pain when I no longer felt it? When all I wanted was to never feel it again? But the slump of Ellen’s body hinted at something I’d lost, a nightmare I’d awoken from. I felt guilty for turning away from her, but I just really wanted to enjoy myself while I could.

  Kit found us seats together in the rickety metal bleachers, right next to the main arena. But even after we sat down, Thomas remained nervous, rolling and unrolling his program in the seat.

  “Don’t worry,” I teased him. “The bulls can’t jump the fence.”

  “No, but you can,” he said.

  “Oh, please,” I said. “I’m quite happy right here.” I linked elbows with Kaya. “Aren’t you?” I said to her. “Or should we see if there’s an amateur event we can compete in tonight?” She was quiet. I felt like I was annoying everybody but Kit, and that was only because right now it was impossible to get on his hyperactive cheerleader nerves. He squeezed in between me and Kaya, spilling popcorn on us in the process.

  Soon the fanatical announcer drowned out everything else. “Welcome, cowhands and sheep wranglers!” the voice boomed through the gargantuan speakers that might have been antiques. “Welcome to the greatest show west of the Rio Grande, where you’ll see barrel racing, saddle bronco riding, steer wrestling, and more . . . !”

  Bucking broncos exploded across the arena, and cowboy after cowboy waved his hat at the cheering crowd. The cowboy introduced as Jack Dynamite was riding a particularly feisty filly, Lady Rattlesnake, whom the announcer in-deed dubbed the “devil incarnate.” (To me she just looked . . . in control.) A camera zoomed in on Mr. Dynamite and broadcast his rugged features onto the staticky big screen.

  “Oooh,” Ellen said, pointing at the vintage Jumbotron. “Kit, you didn’t tell me that your Geronimo wannabe was so good-looking.” Kit shrugged nonchalantly.

  “Whatever,” he said. “Too bad he can’t control his horse.”

  “I’d like to see you try,” Ellen said.

  Then out came the mutton busters. These hilarious little kids lay facedown on furry sheep that dashed to and fro as if they’d had one too many cups of cafe con leche. Together the children and sheep pairs ran around the ring in circles, the frenzied sheep doing a poor job of trying to shake their small but tenacious passengers. The sheep’s wooly, natural saddles actually looked pretty comfortable—no wonder the young shepherds hung on so tightly.

  “That kid’s my favorite,” I said, pointing out a little boy whose glasses were steamed up with anxiety.

  “He’s a champion,” Kit said, and then the kid promptly fell off his sheep.

  “Not his fault! You totally jinxed him, Kit.” We began concocting scenarios for why little kids might need to wrangle sheep. They couldn’t sleep and needed something to count. They had to get to the bouncy castle on time. They needed a place to put all their barrettes.

  Yet as much as Kit sparked and flared and cracked me up, he was mostly just distracting me from how much I wanted to talk to Thomas. I wanted to see the boy who’d opened up to me in the balloon, but today’s cagey version of Thomas looked right past me. It seemed I wasn’t on his emotional radar anymore. I wanted to ask him to bite my lip and pinch my flesh in order to draw out the pain I couldn’t feel, but instead I simply listened to Kit rant jubilantly. I was captive to Kit’s ardor, and to Thomas’s listless beauty.

  He is still fighting his enemies.

  From that bed.

  Full stomach.

  Unarmed.

  Oceans away. . . .

  Finally it was time for the main event. I leaned over to nudge Ellen in excitement, hoping that she was no longer miffed with me, but she and Kaya were gone.

  “They went to the bathroom,” Thomas said somewhat punitively. “Ellen didn’t feel well.”

  How did I miss that? Should I follow them to the bathroom? They hadn’t invited me. Probably on purpose.

  With a big collective cheer from the audience, the real show started, and the excitement washed over me again like a drug.

  From the moment the first bull shot out of the gate, I was enthralled. The creature was massive. Like an angry elephant, with herculean power. His hindquarters looked as if they were attached to a taut spring, and he flung his rear legs around with such force, I thought they might detach from his body. I could practically feel each rider’s whiplash as he hung on for dear life—the cowboys could only manage to stay on their bulls for four, five, six seconds, short spurts of time that probably ticked away like hours while they clung to that unbridled mass of energy. Seeing it in person, I couldn’t believe this sport even existed. It was like watching men wrestle with gods or their own fates.

  Inevitably the rider hit the dust, and then it was get out of Dodge fast or be killed. The bull never settled immediately, but kept kicking and bucking, kept drilling the ring and looking for vengeance. Twice I saw all the weight of a bull’s rear legs descend toward the prone body of his cowboy adversary. Just when I thought the riders were about to be crushed, the rodeo clowns did their thing, distracting the bulls from the vulnerable bodies in the dirt. Those horns were deadly, and the bulls badly wanted to impale someone with them.

  “Wow,” I said. “Go hard or go home.”

  “Yeah, no kidding,” Kit said.

  Thomas sat stone-faced and despondent between us. “Lighten up, Thomas,” I said. “These guys know what they’re doing. Here, have some popcorn.” I tried to put a piece of popcorn in his mouth, but he refused.

  “I want to go,” he said.

  “Soon,” I said. “It’s almost over.” Now I actually felt terrible about dragging Thomas to the rodeo, and worse still for enjoying it so much. I wondered if he would’ve had fun if we’d come here together a week ago, just us, like on a date. And P.S., why hadn’t Kaya and Ellen come back yet?

  The last bull-and-rider pair was announced. The bull was named Beetlejuice, and his rider was a novice cowboy, a guy not much older than us. According to the hypermanic MC, it was the rider’s first major rodeo. He put on a brave, determined face, which
we saw in the fuzzy monitor before he and the bull were released from their gate.

  Almost immediately, Beetlejuice hurled the cowboy from his back, and his arm got caught in the rope harness. He dangled off the flank of the outraged beast, the bull’s legs bucking too powerfully and erratically for the clowns to approach. Finally the rider untangled his forearm and hit the ground, but I could see that he was injured. Barely able to move, let alone scramble to safety, he watched the bull in horror. The animal lowered his head for a decisive charge, as if he were out for revenge. We stood up in the bleachers and held our breath; my muscles flexed as if they wanted to do something other than just watch, helpless.

  Suddenly a new rodeo clown leapt over the fence and into the ring. The clown was white, and he was dressed like a child’s idea of an Indian chief. He waved a fake tomahawk in the air in an effort to draw the bull’s attention from the fallen cowboy. While his gaudy feathered headdress only did just enough to catch the animal’s eye, it totally absorbed Kaya, who was finally making her way back to our seats with Ellen.

  “Do you see that?” Kaya said to no one in particular, her voice laden with fury.

  “Unbelievable,” Kit said.

  “A real Native American would respect the bull,” Kaya said. “Don’t these idiots know that we’re all connected? This is barbaric. You all can stay, but I’m leaving.” She stormed off the bleachers and made her way toward the exits.

  “Wait,” Thomas said. “I’m coming with you.” Kit, Ellen, and I exchanged glances and then gathered our things to go. I stole one last look at the ring, just to make sure the young cowboy had made it out safely (he had, thanks to the offensive “Indian”), then hustled after the group.

  But before I saw my friends ahead of me, I heard screaming. I stopped short. Parents began snatching their children from the main, dusty rodeo concourse, and many others ducked beneath the scaffolding of the bleachers. It took me only seconds to realize what the commotion was all about. A horse was loose in the rodeo grounds. It was Lady Rattlesnake, that gorgeous animal. The chorus of “Sympathy for the Devil” flashed unbidden through my mind.