Bury Your Horses

by Dan Dowhal

  “You’re a certified facility?”

  “Darn tootin’. Got the paperwork and everything.”

  “How do you get certified for something like this? Is there some kind of special rattlesnake milking test you have to take?” He means to be funny, but it comes out sounding like he’s mocking her, and Tammy flashes him a displeased glance.

  “Don’t know, actually. It was my husband’s doing. This whole dang place was my husband’s doing.” Resentment oozes from the statement.

  “Have you thought about doing some other kind of ranching? Cattle or the like?”

  “This ranch ran cattle for pretty near a hundred years. Fought off Mescaleros, rustlers, cattle barons, and even the government. Lived through disease and drought. Never amounted to much, but at least they kept it going all those years, and that’s something, I reckon. Then Bobby — that’s my husband — inherited the place and got it in his fool head he could get rich raising rattlesnakes. Gave away all the steers … can you believe that? Didn’t even sell them, just gave them away to anyone who showed up with a trailer. Said he never wanted to see another cow again as long as he lived. Well, that’s one promise he managed to keep, all right.”

  “Where’s he now, your husband?” he asks, knowing the answer but not the details.

  “He’s dead, okay? Died in Iraq, blown up so bad there weren’t enough pieces to fill a shoebox. And I’m the one left standing, trying to keep everything together … eating snake meat and can’t even afford a decent beefsteak now.”

  Tammy is visibly upset by the subject. Shane senses that she takes pride in her strength and resents this loss of self-composure. She turns her back and begins fiddling with the venom containers. “Look, if you don’t mind, some of us are trying to earn a living,” she says.

  Sorry to have stirred up lingering bitterness, Shane mumbles an apology and allows Tammy her privacy. He wanders off to see how the other women are progressing. Judging from the smell in the air, Maybelline has applied some kind of treatment to the stretched-out snakeskins, which she is now arranging to dry. Yolanda, meanwhile, is packing away a set of scales. Shane is surprised to see that most of the meat she’s cut up has been weighed, packaged, and labelled, as if destined for a supermarket. There are several smaller Styrofoam containers on the ground with what appears to be dry ice inside them, generating a mini fog above each, and this strengthens his conviction that the meat is not meant for their consumption.

  “You guys sell that meat?” he asks. He fully expects a sarcastic retort, or to be threatened with the machete, but Yolanda is surprisingly talkative.

  “Grade A ranch-raised rattlesnake. That’s us. Most of it goes to a distributor in Nevada for restaurants that want some exotic Southwestern dishes on the menu. They charge enough for it — what a joke. But we ship some of it to Chinese butchers in San Francisco and New York, too. They got clients who think the meat has special powers.” She grabs her crotch suggestively, like men sometimes do. “Maybe we should have charged you extra for that meal you had last night. Esta perron!”

  “I don’t need performance enhancers,” he lies. “So, rattlesnake for supper again tonight?”

  “Nope. Tonight we’re gonna celebrate. Tammy’s taking the python piss and meat up to Deming for shipment. On the way home she’ll buy a couple of chickens. We’ll barbeque them up real good.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s any chance she’ll pick up a bottle of vino while she’s at it.”

  Maybelline laughs. “It’s dry in the desert,” she sings in a little girl’s voice, then mimes like she’s choking.

  “Puta loca,” Yolanda says, but she is laughing, too.

  Tammy comes crunching up the aisle. “What’s so funny?” she asks. Shane fears the women will snitch that he was asking after booze and is relieved when they keep his confidence.

  “Nada. Shane here was just disappointed we wouldn’t be grilling up any rattlesnake tonight, that’s all.”

  “I think you’ll find Yolanda’s chicken is nearly as good. Speaking of rattlesnake, that meat good to go yet?”

  “Almost. Just have to close and label the boxes.”

  “Well, hurry it up. I need to haul buns. Bring it out to the truck when you’re done. Rapido!”

  Once Tammy is out of earshot, Shane whistles. “She can be pretty bossy, huh?”

  Expecting agreement, he is surprised to find himself between Yolanda’s crosshairs again.

  “What the fuck do you know, hombre? You try doing half of what that woman does in a day. If it wasn’t for her, we’d all be screwed. Come to think of it, she saved your bacon yesterday, too, didn’t she?” She reaches beneath the butcher’s block, pulls out the machete, and embeds it in the wood with a demonstrative thud.

  “Whoa. Peace. I was just making an observation. I didn’t mean anything by it.” But he feels no anger at Yolanda’s hostility. He respects her loyalty and shares her high opinion of Tammy. “I’m going now. Adios, señoritas.”

  “Señora. Soy una señora,” Yolanda calls after him.

  Shane begins troubleshooting the stable’s electrical issues. He starts with the overhead lights, whose exposed wires run the length of the building. He follows the line as it passes over several of the original porcelain insulating knobs, then finally snakes down a beam to an ancient wall switch near the entrance. He goes over and flicks the switch a couple of times, just to be sure, but unsurprisingly, nothing happens.

  Maybelline and Yolanda hurry past him, each one toting a cooler. In the yard the pickup truck starts up, grinds its transmission, finds the gear, and drives off, lofting a tail of dust behind it. The truck is barely out of sight when Vern comes running out of the house, eager to help.

  “Let’s start by checking out the backroom and seeing what tools we got, okay?” Shane suggests. “Can’t be handymen without tools, right?”

  They pillage the cluttered toolroom for stuff that might be useful, collecting everything in an old carpenter’s apron that Vern asks to wear. Then Shane has the boy fetch a ladder and, working from the fuse box forward, they start their diagnosis.

  It turns out the light switch itself has failed — in a shower of sparks, Shane surmises from the carbon residue splattering the inside of the housing — but they do not have a replacement switch. The bulbs shine brightly overhead when they bypass the light switch altogether and connect the wires, but clearly it is not feasible to have lights burning non-stop.

  “I’m not sure who’d hate it worse, the rattlers, or Aunt Tammy when she gets the electric bill,” Vern comments.

  It is Vern who comes up with the idea of cannibalizing the on-off switch from a discarded vacuum cleaner, and because of Shane’s limited manual agility, the boy also performs the bulk of the wiring himself. When the impromptu replacement has been installed and successfully passes the flick test, the two handymen whoop and shake hands.

  Phase Two is not quite as successful. They only manage to restore power to one lone receptacle, as it soon becomes obvious that the run of ancient wiring leading to the remaining outlets has degraded beyond usefulness. In the interest of safety, Shane has Vern disconnect those lines altogether.

  “I’m surprised that fuse didn’t pop,” he comments, shaking his head. “Count yourself lucky you didn’t have an electrical fire. One big accident waiting to happen, if you ask me.”

  “Wow,” is the boy’s only comment, but judging from how much his eyes widen, he’s picturing the calamity that’s been avoided.

  “You should pick up a proper light switch next time you’re in town,” Shane counsels, “but the whole downstairs needs rewiring. Good industrial-gage wire. Junction boxes. Brand new receptacles. Cut over that antique of a fuse box to a new panel with some proper circuit breakers.”

  “That’s … that’s a lot of work. I wouldn’t even know how.”

  “You can always do the basic stuff and hire an electrician for the tricky parts.”

  “Oh, geez. I don’t think Aunt Tammy’s gonna s
pend money on that. She keeps saying we got nothing to spare.” Vern has grown visibly agitated by the financial implications of their surreptitious little repair job.

  Shane puts his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “Anyway, it’s not something we have to worry about today. Besides, we did all right getting the lights and one outlet fixed, don’t you think? Great job, Vern. High-five!”

  The boy’s humour returns, and he gives Shane’s palm a celebratory smack.

  “You should probably go and do that homework now, though, before your aunt comes back.”

  “Oh yeah, right. Okay. See ya later, Shane.” Vern starts toward the house, then stops and turns. “You’re leaving tomorrow, ain’t you?”

  Shane nods. The boy’s face tightens, but he says nothing. As he walks away, he glances back over his shoulder.

  The sun is tilting toward the western mountains, but there are a few hours of daylight left, and Shane ponders how to kill time. As often happens when he’s idle, the desire for a drink or a snort of cocaine asserts itself. Although it’s grown quite hot outside, he feels chilled. Everything around him seems a little blurry, and if he stares too long at the blue sky, the world begins to spin. His stomach has not been right all day, either, and he’s been suffering occasional spasms in his lower abdomen.

  Shane goes back to the toolroom, thinking he’ll take a nap. When he lies down on his mattress, he starts to shiver, so he climbs beneath the bedroll and curls up into a tight ball. Eventually the tremors stop, and he slips into a dreamless, cavernous sleep.

  Someone is shaking his shoulder and trying to wake him. Shane sits up, disoriented, his mouth feeling like it’s stuffed with cotton. Outside, everything is darkness, and Shane realizes he’s slept past sunset. Maybelline is sitting beside him on the mattress, holding a hurricane lantern.

  “Wow, I really conked out,” Shane groans. “Is it time to eat?”

  Maybelline gives her head a playful shake, causing her red hair to dance. “Where were you at the barbeque?” she sings. “We ate and ate but Shane was late.”

  Shane is still groggy, but it sinks in that no one woke him for the meal. “I missed supper?”

  “Yolanda tried to call you. Said if you’d rather sleep than eat, that was your problem.” Maybelline produces a wicker basket and pulls out a cellophane-covered plate, waving it enticingly in front of him. “I saved you some, though. Chicken, potato salad, and corn niblets.”

  Shane’s stomach growls on cue, and Maybelline giggles. “Someone’s hungry,” she says.

  As Shane unwraps the plate, Maybelline suddenly gives a squeal of joy. “Double, triple, we can tipple,” she sings eagerly. “I brought something else.” She reaches into the basket and holds up a quart mason jar half full of a clear liquid. Unscrewing the lid, she hands the jar to him. The inside of Shane’s mouth feels like a skunk has crawled in there and emptied its sac before dying, so he takes a big swallow.

  A wave of toxic fumes explodes up his nasal passage, and his eyeballs suddenly throb as if they’re about to blow out of his skull. He gasps for air, realizing he has just taken a substantial undiluted chug of some potent alcoholic beverage.

  “Whoa,” he comments hoarsely, wagging his head to restore cranial function.

  Maybelline giggles and takes a swig herself. “Good, huh? It’s the best moonshine in Luna County.”

  Shane glances guiltily toward the doorway. Maybelline puts a finger to her lips. “Shhh. Tammy don’t know nothing about it. She’d probably run me off the place if she did.”

  “It’ll be our little secret,” Shane promises her.

  Making occasional noises of appreciation, he hastily eats the food, washing it down periodically with cautious sips from the liquor jar as it passes between them. Maybelline, meanwhile, has kicked off her shoes and cozied up beside him on the mattress. When he has finished with his plate, she leans over to take it and glances upward at him. In that instant it seems to Shane that Maybelline may want him to kiss her … then again, it might just be a side effect of the booze.

  He has never been adept at divining female nuances, and one of his biggest fears is misinterpreting a signal and forcing himself upon an unwilling woman. As a consequence, he knows he has missed some sexual opportunities in the past by being too cautious — or too obtuse — to decipher an invitation. Still, he has seen teammates embroiled in nasty public scandals, and some have even faced criminal charges of rape or indecent assault, so he has always been content to take the better-safe-than-sorry approach.

  He is doubly cautious because he knows his professional persona, cultivated by the showmen of his sport, is of some dangerous, violent beast. Certainly, his explosive, often spectacular acts of rage have fuelled this reputation, along with the bloody on-ice fights he engages in regularly in front of tens of thousands, sometimes millions of viewers. He resents that he is believed by extrapolation to be a brute by nature. With the exception of a couple of barroom brawls — which he did not initiate and where he acted in self-defence — he has never assaulted or battered someone off the ice. And he has certainly never hurt a woman, not even in moments of white-hot rage. To him this would be unthinkable.

  “Thanks for thinking of me,” he tells Maybelline.

  “Nice to have someone to drink with. Not quite the same thing sneaking out back by yourself.” She studies his face, making him self-conscious about his appearance. It’s bad enough that he’s missing his dentures, but it dawns on him that he’s going on two days without a shower. “Tammy says you’re married,” Maybelline adds after a moment.

  “I was. I’m divorced now.”

  “How long?”

  “How long was I married, or how long since the divorce?”

  She shrugs. “Both.”

  “I was married for six years. We got divorced five years ago.”

  She bites her lip as she digests the information. “I like you,” she finally concludes, squeezing his bicep, although it somehow sounds like the pronouncement of a six-year-old. Shane can’t glean whether it’s meant to be a sexual come-on. His mind wrestles with the parameters of the problem — the degree of uncertainty, his bouts of sexual dysfunction, and something else, or rather someone else hovering at the periphery of his thoughts.

  Abruptly, the overhead lights go on.

  “See, Aunt Tammy, I told you we got ’em working,” Vern’s voice echoes down the stable.

  Maybelline grabs the liquor jar from Shane’s hands and leaps up to stuff it behind some paint cans in the corner. Handing the dinner plate back to him, she whispers, “Here, pretend like you’re just finishing eating,” as the crunching footsteps draw nearer. Shane complies, and Maybelline steps into her shoes, tugs down her dress, extracts some breath mints from a pocket, and pops them into her mouth. She flits to the far end of the room and leans against the workbench. When Tammy and Vern enter, Maybelline is pretending to fish through a box of bolts, not even looking in Shane’s direction.

  “Well, look who finally woke up,” Tammy says.

  “Can’t believe I passed out like that,” Shane says with a laugh. “Must have been the medicine the doc gave me. I really appreciate you saving dinner for me, though. It was delicious.”

  “Uh-huh,” Tammy replies. She glances in Maybelline’s direction, then scrutinizes Shane, but eventually her face softens. She gestures upward. “Vern says that’s your doing.”

  Before he can answer, Maybelline comes over. “You finished?” she asks, acting indifferent. When Shane nods, she takes the plate, gives him a wink that Tammy can’t see, and leaves the room. Shane makes a point of not watching the redhead’s retreating backside, instead looking at Tammy and indicating the cast on his hand.

  “I wasn’t much help, really. Vern did most of the work.”

  The boy is as excited as a puppy being petted, but he refuses to hog the credit. “I couldn’t have done it without Shane. He showed me what to do. We’re a good team.”

  Tammy actually smiles at Vern’s exuberance. “Well,
we’re much obliged.”

  “Shane says we could redo the whole stable if we had the materials.” Vern cuts himself off, realizing what he’s just said.

  Tammy’s grin evaporates. “Well, Shane’s leaving tomorrow, ain’t he, and we got no money for new wiring nohow.” She prods Vern toward the door before turning to address Shane. “The Western Union office in Columbus opens at nine, so I figured we’d leave right after the kids are on the school bus. Okay with you?”

  It’s not really a question, and Shane nods assent.

  “All right, then.” Tammy gestures toward the kerosene lantern beside Shane’s bed. “I reckon you’ll be all right with just the lamp. We’ll turn off the lights on the way out. Just because we got ’em don’t mean we have to burn up electricity. See ya in the morning.”

  NINE

  Shane wakes the next morning to discover he’s overslept and missed saying goodbye to the children. He is annoyed with himself, having intended to get up at the crack of dawn, although his throbbing head tells him he can partially blame it on the moonshine. Only Yolanda is in the kitchen when he finally shows up at the ranch house, scrubbing the tarnish off an old kettle. She looks up at Shane with antipathy when he enters.

  “Where is everyone?” he asks.

  “Died of old age waiting for you to get up. Going on ten o’clock.”

  “Why the hell didn’t somebody wake me?”

  She leaps to her feet and slams the kettle on the tabletop. “What the hell you think this is? A hotel? You want a wake-up call? Maybe you want the maids to come and make up your bed. Or fuck you in the bed while they’re at it.”

  “Yolanda! Watch your language,” Tammy shouts from the doorway behind them. Yolanda shrivels like a chastised child, but continues to mutter in Spanish under her breath. “You ready to go?” Tammy demands brusquely.

  Shane had hoped for a cup of coffee and some breakfast and was even thinking of asking if he could impose on them for a bath or shower before heading to town, but now he abandons these notions.