by Dan Dowhal
And over the past few years, he has started to feel frequently depressed, worthless, and confused. For all his power, he is powerless. For all his strength, he is helpless. He is aware that bad things have happened to other hockey enforcers — several have died in recent memory. The coroner’s reports may say drug overdose, or suicide, or death by misadventure, but Shane knows the truth. They simply lost their grip on the planet and fell off. Some blame the blows to the head they’d taken over the years, claiming they were punch drunk. Brain damaged. Shane doesn’t know anything about that, and he’d like to think the Players’ Association would do something about it if that was true, although he has also been in the game long enough to know that the lawyers wouldn’t let the league admit liability.
And then — was it just a week or so ago? — then came the darkest moment of his soul, when the counterbalancing forces of his life — the camaraderie, the intoxicating rush of the game, the privilege and status offered him — were torn away and replaced by ignominy and persecution, and he found himself bilked and betrayed by the person closest to him. During the mad blur of his motorcycle ride south, he lamented more than once how he had left nothing to mark his passage through the world other than some undistinguished career statistics and a stack of newspaper headlines now dominated by one tragic incident. Only a desperate feeling that he still might accomplish something in life kept him from succumbing to the blackness suffocating his soul.
But now, during the few days he has spent at Rancho Crótalo, Shane has felt a strange new force, as if the impoverished soil itself is pulling at him. Here, your labour can produce a tangible result. Although you have to fight just to survive, the dirt under your fingernails, calluses on your palms, and sweat on your brow add up to something real. What does Shane have to show for his hockey years other than scar tissue, missing teeth, and ravaged tendons?
The people he has met here also have something to do with it. In many ways, they are as bruised and confused as he is. But he feels like he is on their team now, and as such, he will not let them down and will fight to protect them. It’s what he does.
And then there is Tammy. He really does not know yet what to make of his feelings for her, and little voices in his head whisper warnings that he is desperate, on the rebound. Yet the very fact that she is not some primped and seductive cheerleader type smothered in beauty products, but plainer, and older, and worldlier than the sort of woman he’s used to dating is what draws him to her. In the past he has been like a moth incinerated in the flames of disorienting beauty. Tammy’s light is more like the soft, warming, life-giving glow of a wood stove in winter.
Shane joins Tammy to meet the school bus. It may be his imagination, but he feels like she is starting to enjoy his company, too. They walk slowly and chat lightly about work the ranch requires.
Gracie leaps off the bus and sprints toward them. She greets her mother first, then gives Shane’s thigh a hug, too. Then she stands, smiling up at him. He knows she is after a ride on his shoulders, but is too polite to demand it. First, though, he waits to greet Vern. The boy seems subdued, so Shane drapes his arm around Vern’s shoulders and walks with him for a bit, telling him what progress has been made that day and giving the boy a chance to talk about school, if he so chooses. Shane is emulating one of his first professional coaches, a tiny, sixtysomething leprechaun of a man with a reputation for being good with young talent. What that meant was treating the players with respect, keeping an even temper, and listening. Shane’s been traded enough times since then to have endured virtually every coaching style there is, but the old coach’s calm and caring approach has always stuck with him.
“Some of the other boys were hassling me today,” Vern finally admits.
“You didn’t get into another scrap, did you?” Tammy interjects.
“No, ma’am.”
“Good,” she answers, with no goodness in her voice.
“It’s no fun when they pick on you, is it?” Shane says. “Bet it was over something really stupid.”
“Yeah! Just because I dropped a fly ball playing baseball. I don’t even like baseball. The teacher made us play.”
Shane gives the boy’s back a light pat. “They were just looking for an excuse. You’re still the new kid — that’s the only reason. It has nothing to do with who you really are. They’ll accept you eventually. But stay out of fights, okay? They don’t solve anything and only get you into trouble.” The last statement is strictly for Tammy’s benefit, and Vern does not look convinced. Shane decides that later, in private, he will also counsel the boy to stand up to bullies, perhaps teach him some fighting techniques. It’s okay to be a pacifist, but not a patsy or a punching bag.
Shane gives Vern’s arm a final reassuring squeeze, then he squats down to face the patient Gracie. “Want a quick horsie ride back home?” he asks. She gives a little squawk of delight and practically jumps onto his shoulders. “Hang on tight,” he tells her, and takes off at as fast a gallop as his legs can manage.
Later that evening, as the women of the house bustle around the kitchen preparing dinner, Shane sits beside Gracie at the table and watches her draw pictures. The little girl’s doodles betray her obsession with horses, and obvious practice has resulted in renderings that are advanced for someone so young. When Shane catches her eyeing the blank canvas of his plaster cast, he offers to let her draw on it. Gracie selects coloured markers of permanent ink and sets to painstaking work. The finished piece is not bad, given her inexperience with drawing on rough, cylindrical surfaces. Shane includes Vern by having him draw some mountains and bushes as a background for the galloping mustang.
“It’s cool,” Shane decides. “Maybe when the cast comes off, I’ll get a tattoo just like it. What’s he called?” he asks.
“She’s called Teotlalco.”
“Wow, that’s an unusual name.”
“Unusual for you, maybe, gringo,” Yolanda snipes.
“She was queen of the Aztecs,” Gracie explains. “There’s a city named after her in Mexico, too. I’m going to call her Teo for short, though.”
Shane realizes this is the name she wants to give a real horse some day. “So, you want a girl horse?”
“It’s called a mare, silly. I want to adopt a mare, and then I want to adopt a stallion, too. When I get one of each I’m going to raise a whole herd.”
“Adopt?”
“Yup, from the BLM.”
The acronym means nothing to Shane. He looks to Tammy for clarification. “The Bureau of Land Management,” she explains. “They manage all the wild mustang herds on public land. Burros, too.”
Shane returns his attention to Gracie. “And they’ll let you adopt a horse?”
She nods. “It costs a hundred and twenty-five dollars.”
“Is that all? Heck, I’ll give you a hundred and twenty-five dollars.”
Gracie’s shriek of delight almost pierces Shane’s eardrums. She throws herself at him and wraps him in an embrace. Her little arms enveloping him and the love that radiates through them create a tingling that flows through Shane like some amazing drug rush. He still feels it after she lets go.
“Did you hear that, Mommy? Shane’s going to buy me a horse!”
“Oh yeah, honey, I heard it all right. It’s getting late, sweetie. Go brush your teeth and get ready for bed. You git, too, Vern. Me and Shane are gonna have a little talk.”
Gracie goes skipping out of the room, while Vern slinks outside to his shed. Through some unspoken communication, the other two women get up and depart as well. Once she and Shane are alone, Tammy reels like a striking snake. “Are you crazy? What the fuck’s wrong with you, promising something like that?”
Shane doesn’t know what’s more shocking, that he’s being dumped on for his generosity, or that Tammy is breaking her own house rule about swearing.
“It’s only a hundred and twenty-five dollars.”
“It’s only a hundred and twenty-five dollars,” she mimics. “Well, Miste
r, it ain’t that simple. First of all, we’d have to buy a horse trailer and drive up to the adoption centre in Oklahoma. Then we got to sign a contract saying we’ll house and feed the critter. You got any idea what hay goes for? ’Cause we sure as hell ain’t got no decent grazing. And, oh yeah, we’d have to renovate a couple of the stalls to meet their regulations. Then there’s the vet bills …”
“Sorry, I didn’t know —”
“What you don’t know about living here could fill a whole library.”
“But I’ve got money coming. I’ll pay whatever the costs are. Did you see how happy she was? We could make her dream come true.”
“The sooner she learns that dreams are a lot of fairy-tale hogwash, and life ain’t nothing but hard work and disappointment, the better off she’ll be.”
“That’s not true.”
“Oh yeah? Didn’t you have dreams about having a loving wife and a happy family? How’s that working out for you?”
“That’s hitting below the belt.”
“With a big galoot like you, that’s where they tend to land.” That last statement at least has a touch of humour in it. Tammy flops down onto the bench next to Shane, her anger waning. “Look, I love my little girl … love her more than anything in the goddarn world. I want to see her happy, I really do. But dreams are just silly notions when they ain’t realistic. I had me some dreams, too, once upon a time. That’s how I ended up here.”
Despite the tension, Shane can’t resist teasing. “You dreamt of being a rattlesnake rancher?”
“Very funny. No, I had me dreams of being a country singer once upon a time. I dunno, maybe it’s because I was named after Tammy Wynette. Left my home in Throckmorton County, Texas, when I was barely seventeen and ran off to sing in honky-tonks and roadhouses. Wrote a fair bit of my own stuff, too. A lotta folks said I was pretty good … not just the young bucks trying to get under my skirt. The money was crap, and the living was rough, but I kept figuring someone would come along and whisk me off to Nashville, where I’d be a star. Then along comes Bobby DeWitt flashing a bankroll and a big smile and sweet-talking me about his big spread in New Mexico. Said he’d build me a recording studio and be my manager. Well, sir, all he managed was to get me knocked up. And see where I ended up?”
Shane places his hand on Tammy’s and is relieved when she doesn’t jerk it away. “But just because dreams usually don’t pan out doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have them. Could you have lived with yourself if you hadn’t given it a shot?”
Tammy shrugs. “I reckon not.”
“For everyone that makes it, there’s a hundred others just as talented who don’t get the breaks. That’s life. But this horse thing with Gracie isn’t a pipe dream. It’s just a matter of money, and I said I’d pay it.”
“Shane, you do like to talk sweet, but it’s not like you’re here for the long haul, is it? Hell, we never even said you could stick around for more than a week or so, now, did we? No, sir, most promises ain’t worth the spit that makes ’em.”
“Hey, haven’t I kept all my promises to you?”
She laughs and turns her own hand over so she can squeeze his fingers. “Well, I can’t say I’ve ever caught you lying to me — yet. But it ain’t like you’ve been an open book, neither. For instance, I don’t even know where all this money you been promising is supposed to come from, when you’ve had to borrow from your own daddy just to get by.”
It has bothered Shane that he hasn’t been able to open up to Tammy, but he cannot bring himself to admit he recently killed a man and might be prosecuted for it. Still, he needs to open the blinds and let at least some of the truth shine through.
“I’ve got back pay coming from my old job,” he tells her.
“And what old job is that?”
“I was a hockey player.”
“You got paid for playing hockey?” He nods. “And how long did you do it?”
“Eighteen years … up until a couple of weeks ago.”
“That’s a long time. So, what ya fixin’ to do now that it’s all over?”
“Haven’t decided yet.”
“Well, from what I’ve heard, most of you fellas don’t make more ’n’ ten thou or so a year.”
He realizes that she is assuming he was some bush-league semi-professional type. It troubles his conscience, but he doesn’t correct her, preferring she not know how much money he’s squandered, or the international scale of the scandal he’s embroiled in.
“Seems to me you’re gonna need that there money for yourself,” Tammy continues. “The thing is, Gracie ain’t eighteen, so she can’t go signing adoption papers for no horse. It would be up to me, and I just can’t see spending that kind of money.”
“Even if I paid for everything?”
“There you go again. Next thing I know, you’ll be promisin’ to build Vern a hockey rink out back.”
“Well, you sure got the space for it.”
She smiles. “Have you told him yet?”
“Told him what?”
“That you were a professional hockey player.”
“No. I mean, I could see how you wouldn’t approve.”
“It ain’t that I don’t approve, it’s just … well, it’s just not practical for us here, that’s all. I mean, even if we could afford the equipment, the closest ice rinks are all up north, Albuquerque way.” She sighs. “You must think me a real B-I-T-C-H.”
“No, I get it. It’s hard keeping all this together and being the one everyone leans on. I really admire you for it.”
Her mouth opens, but she says nothing. Instead she stares into his eyes, as if trying to decide whether she likes what she sees there, until, from down the hallway, Gracie laughs, unhinging the moment.
“I’d best lock up now,” she says.
“All right. Good night, Tammy,” he replies and gets up to go. He pauses in the doorway. “At least think about it, will you? I mean about Gracie and the horse.”
“Okay. I reckon I can do that much.”
THIRTEEN
Maybelline evidently has not acquired a new supply of moonshine, for she does not appear in the stable that night. Shane therefore rises with the sun the next morning and with a clear head. After breakfast he volunteers to shepherd the kids out to wait for the school bus, and upon his return tracks Tammy down to beg a favour. She is alone in the kitchen sewing a patch onto a pair of jeans.
“Say, Tammy, I got more money arriving at the Western Union office, and I was wondering if I could get a lift into town. I wanna buy some stuff for the ranch, too, while I’m there.”
“Keys are hanging on the wall. Help yourself,” she answers. When Shane, surprised, does not move, she adds, “S’matter? Don’t y’all know how to drive a stick?”
“Are you kidding? I’m a small-town boy. I was shifting gears before I was legal. I’m just surprised you’re lending me the truck, that’s all.”
“You said I could trust you, didn’t you? Well, there you go,” she says matter-of-factly, returning to her sewing. “If you want to gas it up while you’re there, I wouldn’t complain. Just so you know, though, reverse can be a little tricky to find. First and second, too, for that matter.”
“If you can’t find it, grind it,” he jokes.
“Not unless you’re fixing to buy me a new transmission.”
As he’s starting up the truck, Maybelline materializes and sticks her head through the window. “Maybe you could pick us up some hooch while you’re out,” she whispers.
He smiles. “Already on my list. You like mezcal?”
“Love it. We’ll have a party tonight.”
Shane manages with some effort to get the truck into gear, but has to slam on the brakes when Yolanda walks directly in front of the vehicle. She remains planted there with her arms folded and a scowl on her face. He leans his head out the window to address her.
“Yolanda, Tammy said it was okay to borrow the truck.”
“I know. And I know you wouldn’t be so stupi
d as to steal our truck. Because if you do —”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ll hunt me down and feed me my own balls. Is that before or after you shove the scorpions down my pants?”
“After, of course.” She walks over and hands him a piece of paper. “Groceries we need,” she explains. “And you pay. Está bien?”
“No problemo,” he replies, taking the list.
Shane returns from a prolific shopping spree that includes construction supplies for the ranch, work clothes, and several bottles of mezcal, and sees Doc Sanchez’s mobile clinic parked out front. The doctor is leaning casually on the side of his vehicle, grinning broadly as he talks to Yolanda, who is sour faced, as usual. The two are speaking in Spanish. Although Shane cannot understand the specifics of the conversation, judging by Sanchez’s tone and the way he is holding his stetson over his heart, it appears that the doctor is attempting to sweet-talk the Chicana.
Something Sanchez says elicits a gush of words from Yolanda. Shane doesn’t need a translator to know she is cursing the doctor. Instead of recoiling or showing any temper himself, Sanchez blows her a kiss.
“Chinga su madre, pendejo!” she spits at him and storms toward the house.
“Is everything all right?” Shane asks as he approaches Sanchez, who is fanning himself with his stetson.
“Terrific. I think I may be wearing her down.”
“No, I mean, is everything okay in the house? Somebody sick or something?”
“Oh, no, I’m not here in a medical capacity. Actually, I came by to see you … and to ruffle Yolanda’s feathers a little while I’m here. Someone needs to remind her that she’s still a woman.” He lets out a theatrical sigh. “And quite an attractive one at that.”
“It didn’t look like she was buying whatever you were selling.”
He laughs. “Maybe. But, then, it wouldn’t be any fun if she just threw up her skirts and said, ‘Take me!’ I’m a patient man … I think I can bring her around to my way of thinking.”
“In this lifetime?”