by Dan Dowhal
“No, no, these new fluorescents are way more efficient. They’ll actually cut down on your lighting bills. Besides, that old wiring was a fire just waiting to happen. If a building inspector ever saw it, he would have shut you down for sure.”
“Well, I just love them,” Maybelline chirps. She raises her arms up toward the ceiling as if basking in sunlight. “Hark, hark, say goodbye to the dingy dark,” she sings.
“I guess now I won’t have to worry about slicing off one of my fingers when we’re filleting,” Yolanda adds, having formed an opinion after all.
The hard set of Tammy’s mouth shows she has nothing more to say. She turns and leaves the stable. Shane senses Vern’s disappointment and rushes to fill the void. “Way to go, buddy. High-five,” he says, offering up his palm for slapping. The boy has to jump to reach it.
Maybelline waltzes over and presses her lips to Vern’s cheek. “Good job, Vern.” Judging from the resulting blush on the boy’s cheek, the kiss has more than a casual impact. Maybelline reads this and giggles. She catches Shane’s eye and winks. “See you later,” she mouths silently.
Shane turns to see Yolanda studying them. At first he worries that she spotted his secret exchange with Maybelline, but Yolanda’s look actually seems benign.
“Don’t expect a kiss from me,” she tells Vern, “but better an electrician than a hockey player. Bueno.” Vern’s face breaks into a gigantic goofy grin.
Gracie has been watching the scene sullenly, seemingly unsure what to make of Vern’s ascension into the limelight.
“I could teach you some things about being an electrician, too, Gracie … if you want,” Shane tells her.
“Girls aren’t ’lectricians,” she counters.
“That’s not true. Girls can be whatever they want to be. Isn’t that right, Yolanda?”
She smiles, amused not by the question but by its source. “Si, chiquita. Don’t let any man tell you different.”
Gracie has little time to ponder the revelation, as her mother’s voice echoes into the stable.
“Gracie! Come on, child. It’s time for bed.”
The little girl reacts immediately, but stops in her tracks to go over to her cousin. “Good job, Vern,” she says and offers up her palm to be slapped.
SIXTEEN
Maybelline sneaks into the stable shortly before midnight, giggles preceding her entrance. Shane is lying on the mattress fully clothed, already two swigs of mezcal ahead of her. Instead of walking around the bed, Maybelline climbs over top of Shane, her breasts pressing against him, lengths of her legs liberally exposed. Shane eases away from her once she has settled into place.
As she reaches for the bottle, Maybelline rubs her other hand across his abdomen, then slides her fingers down inside his beltline. Shane is irritated by her continued, deliberate teasing, but he does not want her to feel rebuffed, so he takes the wandering hand in his and makes a show of examining her palm.
“Wish I could tell your fortune,” he says.
“Yolanda can. She already read my palm.” Maybelline hands over the bottle and uses her free hand to trace the lifeline. “See this break here … that’s from when I was all fucked up ’n’ stuff. But from here on it’s clear sailing. Yolanda says I’m going to end up having a long and contented life.” She turns over Shane’s hand, and a puzzled look clouds her face. “Wow, you’re really messed up,” she comments. Shane’s palm has a large, ugly scar, the result of getting badly sliced by a skate blade early in his professional career.
“Here, try this one,” he suggests.
“Actually, I don’t really know nothing ’bout it … reading palms, I mean. Except one hand’s supposed to be your potential, and the other shows what’s already gone on in your life, but I forget which is which for a guy.” She drops his unblemished hand and reacquires the scarred one. “Hell, if this ain’t the one that shows the life you’ve lived, then it should be,” she chuckles.
“Not my whole life … just one bad season,” Shane replies. He takes another swig of mezcal.
Reflected on the surface of the liquor bottle, he catches sight of a standing figure and suddenly feels the booze backslide up his throat. Tammy is in the doorway, silently observing them. He has no idea how she managed to enter the stable and traverse the gravel path to sneak up on them without making any sound, but it’s clear she is upset by what she is seeing. Her fists are clenched, and even in the dim lantern light, the trembling of her frame is clearly visible.
“Aw, shit,” Maybelline mutters when she follows Shane’s gaze to Tammy. The redhead jumps to her feet, but wavers when she realizes she cannot escape with Tammy blocking the exit. She looks down at the floor like some sorry little girl.
The mezcal bottle in Shane’s hand feels like it’s burning him, but there’s no point in trying to hide it now. He recorks the bottle and places it down on the ground, then searches for something reassuring to say. Tammy’s continued silence is unnerving.
“We were just having a friendly drink,” he finally offers.
“Yeah, I can see that. Real friendly,” Tammy retorts. She walks over and nudges the bottle with the toe of her boot. “She chargin’ you for her company, or is this one a freebie?” Shane recognizes a verbal snare when he hears one, and stays mum.
Although Maybelline’s path out the door is now clear, she does not make her escape. Neither does she affect crocodile tears. To Shane’s surprise, her face colours to match her hair.
“Up yours, Tammy! I’ll always be grateful for what you done for me, but I don’t have to take that kind of crap from you. ’Tweren’t nothin’ going on between us, and that’s a fact. Yeah, I snuck out here to have a few drinks behind your back ’cause I know you don’t like it, but that’s all, so spare me your Miss-High-And-Mighty disapproving attitude.” It feels surreal to Shane, observing someone else succumbing to anger.
“And that’s another thing, come to think of it,” Maybelline surges on. “What the hell gives you the right to tell me what I can and can’t do? Yeah, this is your place, but you know darn well I pull my own weight and keep to your rules the rest of the time. I don’t need you to remind me how messed up I once was. I remember clear enough. But screw you if I can’t have a few drinks at the end of the day, like I’m gonna end up back on the streets or something if I do. I love you to death, Tammy DeWitt, but you’re a real tight ass, y’know. Maybe you should have a couple of drinks yourself and loosen up for a change. Wouldn’t do you any harm to get laid, either.” She jabs a finger in Shane’s direction. “That one there’ll help you out in a heartbeat. He’s crazy for ya.”
Finally Maybelline heads out the door, but Tammy doesn’t let her off scot-free. “Yeah, get out of here, you loco bitch! Go back to the gutter where I found ya.”
Now Tammy turns on Shane. “Shoulda known you was no good when I picked your sorry ass up off the side of the highway. All that sweet talk don’t amount to nothing when push comes to shove. So, you like to party with drunks, do you?”
She reaches down and plucks the mezcal bottle off the ground. Pulling the cork out with her teeth, she spits it at Shane. “All right, then. Let’s have a party, you ’n’ me. That crazy bitch thinks I’m a tight ass. Well, I’ve done my share of honky-tonking … all those years I was singing in joints even she’d be too scared to step into.” She throws back her head and gulps down a good quarter of the bottle, then wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Mezcal, eh? Good shit, too. Well, you got money in your pocket now, don’t you? Yessiree, I’ve been down the bottom of a bottle more than once. That’s how I ended up with Gracie. She’s a bottle baby, on account of I was too drunk to make sure Bobby was wearing a rubber.” She takes another swig and breaks out into laughter. “Bottle baby … ha, that’s a good one. If I was still writing songs, that’d be a natural.”
“Tammy, don’t —” Shane pleads.
“S’matter? I thought this was a party,” Tammy answers and takes another swig.
&nb
sp; “Stop it, you’ll make yourself sick.”
“You weren’t complaining when it was Maybelline doing the drinking. Oh, but of course, she flashes a lot more skin, don’t she? Here, let me help you out.” Tammy unbuttons her shirt, but has trouble pulling the right sleeve off over the bottle in her hand. She giggles, drains the bottle, and tosses it onto the mattress so she can remove her shirt. Finally, she stands there in a sleeveless men’s undershirt. Shane cannot help but admire the defined musculature of her arms. She is not wearing a bra, and her nipples are pushing at the fabric. She catches Shane ogling her breasts and laughs.
“Whaddya think?” she asks, pulling back her shoulder blades. “Not as perky as they once was, but not bad for a gal coming onto middle age.” She swirls her hips in an exotic dance, and at the same time cups her breasts and flaunts them the way Shane has seen strippers do.
“Here, let me give you a real show.” Tammy begins removing her jeans, but once they’re down around her calves, she teeters, loses her balance, and falls directly on top of Shane.
“So much for foreplay,” Tammy laughs. “All right, then, let’s get straight to the screwing.” Ramming her lips onto his, she forces her tongue into his mouth, where it squirms like an agitated serpent. Meanwhile her hand gropes around Shane’s crotch in search of an erection.
“C’mon, Big Hoss, let’s see what ya got,” she urges. Her speech is beginning to slur.
Shane pushes her off and stands up. “Stop it!” He’s concerned by her behaviour, but also he is embarrassed by his lack of arousal. This has become a chronic problem in recent years. Aside from his basic humiliation over his impotence, he doesn’t want Tammy to think that he doesn’t find her attractive.
Tammy starts to clamber to her feet, but now the alcohol is clearly showing its impact. She sways like an aspen in the wind, and when she steps toward Shane, she tumbles to the mattress. Squirming onto her back, she stretches her arms out toward him.
“Shane! Shane! Come back and fuck me, Shane!” she laughs.
“Not when you’re like this.”
“I thought you liked drunks.”
“I told you, there’s nothing going on with me and Maybelline other than sharing a few drinks. I really like you, Tammy — a lot — but you’re hammered.”
“I think you’re right. The room’s spinning.” She rolls onto her side and squeezes her body into a ball. “Oh, shit. I don’t feel so good.”
Shane figures she is going to throw up, and although it’s likely the best thing for her at the moment, he doesn’t want vomit all over his bed.
“C’mon, Tammy. Let’s get you outside, then we’ll put you to bed.” Despite some awkwardness due to his cast, he manages to pick her up. She hangs limply in his arms, pressing her face into his chest.
“Thash wha’ I’ve bin tryin’ to tell ya, ya big galoot,” she slurs, barely coherent. “Take me t’ bed. I wanna make shweet love to you.”
“I’m taking you to bed, but just so you can sleep it off.”
“Nooo!” she shrieks, astonishingly loudly given her inebriated state. Seconds later, the door of the ranch house slams, and the other two women come running out. Yolanda is carrying her shotgun, and she points it toward Shane when she sees Tammy hanging in his arms, half naked.
“What are you doing to her, puerco? I’m going to blow your balls off,” she growls.
Tammy raises her head. “That’s right, Yolanda. Shoot him. I begged him to fuck me and he won’t do it, the queer cocksucker.” A noticeable spasm shakes her body. She adds a feeble “Oh, shit,” before unleashing a gush of vomit.
Having anticipated this, Shane puts her down and keeps her head forward so that the spew arches away from her, landing harmlessly in the dirt. The other two women cringe in disgust, although there is amusement written there, as well.
“She’s drunk,” Shane explains.
“You think?” Yolanda retorts. She and Maybelline share a snicker.
“Here, the two of us can carry her,” Maybelline offers.
“That’s okay. I already got her. Just show me where to put her. But we should try getting some water down her before she passes out.”
Maybelline pirouettes and flits like a shadow into the house. Yolanda is still eyeing Shane and has yet to lower the shotgun. Finally she breaks open the weapon, shakes the shells into her hand, snaps the barrels shut, and gestures toward the house.
“Bring her.”
“Hang on a sec. Let’s make sure Tammy’s unloaded, too.” Shane lowers his head to where Tammy’s is hanging down. “How you doing, sweetie? Anything more needing to come out?”
At first the only answer is a groan, then an animal sound issues from deep within her and she upchucks again. Finally, she is only dry heaving, aftershocks rocking her body.
“All right, I think she’s done,” Shane says. He picks her up again and kicks dirt over the puddle of vomit. “Let’s get her some water and put her to bed.”
Maybelline meets them at the door with a pitcher and a glass, and Shane deposits Tammy on the stoop so they can force her to drink two glasses of water. At the suggestion of a third, she shakes her head petulantly, lets out a little burp, and passes out. When Shane goes to pick Tammy up again, Yolanda pushes him away.
“We can take it from here, hombre.”
“You sure? I don’t mind carrying her.”
“Just because she was acting all hot and horny for you don’t mean I’m letting you into the house. Back to the stable, now. Vamos.” The Chicana turns to Maybelline and scowls at her. “And don’t you go sneaking out there, either. You’ve caused enough trouble for one night. Come on, loca, give me a hand.”
Together they grab Tammy’s arms and legs, hoist her off the ground, and start lugging her into the house. Shane heads back to the stable. He hears Maybelline call out, “Good night.” To his surprise, Yolanda’s voice follows. “Buenas noches, Shane. Gracias.”
SEVENTEEN
Shane spends another uneasy night haunted by troubling dreams. He wakes up with the sun and a pounding headache, feeling like he’s fighting his way through a fog. He blames the booze, although in reality, last night was a temperate one, by his standards. Still, he prefers not to delve into other possible causes of his pain and haziness at the moment and closes the case by self-prescribing two Percocets.
There is nothing in the stable to wash down the pills with, so Shane heads to the ranch house in search of water. Tammy, rock-solid team player that she is, is up and active in the kitchen. Even though they are alone, his greeting and subsequent attempts at conversation are met with stony silence.
“Do you want to talk about what happened last night?” Shane suggests. Once upon a time, the need to discuss another person’s feelings was as foreign to Shane as this desert terrain is now, but thanks to persistent coaching from his ex-wife, he added a new dimension to his interpersonal game.
Tammy reels back and fixes him with dark-rimmed, bloodshot eyes.
“Nothing happened last night, okay? So there sure as spit ain’t nothing for us to talk about.”
Shane stands paralyzed, his anger rising. He resents her rebuffing him when he was only trying to be supportive and communicative.
“Screw this,” he rumbles, turning to leave before he can damage anything. The old floorboards of the kitchen vibrate beneath him as he stomps toward the door. But somewhere between the third and fourth step, a feeling of déjà vu washes over him. You’re always running into someone or running away from everyone. Get a grip, Shane! Go back and talk to the girl. It occurs to him, too, that Tammy’s rough words might have been her gruff attempt to initiate the discussion.
He turns back and hovers, searching for words that will not ignite the volatile situation. He realizes that he should simply confess his fear of not being able to perform sexually. Perhaps if he offers this innermost secret to her like some precious gift, she will understand how much she has come to mean to him. And, yet, despite his impulse for intimacy, the prospec
t of revealing his impotency to her is still too humiliating, striking at the very core of his manhood.
Tammy, too, looks like she wants to speak, but cannot form the right words. She stands there limply, scouring the same frying pan over and over. Shane is not sure, as he’s standing behind her, but he thinks she might be crying. This only adds to his indecisiveness. Women’s tears have always been an enigma to him. On various occasions in the past he has misinterpreted them, been manipulated by them, or been chided for trying to stop their free flow.
“I’m … sorry,” he offers, but Tammy whirls around like she’s been slapped.
“Sorry! Sorry for what, exactly? For drinking behind my back when you know I don’t allow it? For sneaking around with Maybelline and making me think she’s back to her old ways?” The anger collapses, and her voice breaks. “Or … or … for making me care when I know I’m just going to get my heart broke again? Damn you!”
Shane is spared from having to answer, as Gracie walks into the kitchen then. “What’s wrong, Mama?” she asks, absorbing the tension. Her gaze bounces between the two adults in search of an explanation.
“Nothing’s wrong, sweetie,” Tammy replies, turning back to the sink and wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “Y’all ready for school? Bus’ll be here in a minute.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Gracie replies, unconvinced.
“Come on, let’s go get Vern, and I’ll walk you out to the road,” Shane offers.
Gracie wavers. “What about you, Mama?”
Tammy doesn’t turn, but her steadier voice indicates she has recovered somewhat, or at least put on a brave front. “You run along with Shane now, Sunshine. Mama’s got things to finish up. Love ya.”
“Love you, too, Mama.”
Long after the school bus rumbles away in a shroud of dust and exhaust fumes, Shane hesitates by the side of the road, reluctant to return to the ranch house, where Tammy’s anger lingers like radioactive fallout. Eventually he takes a roundabout route back onto the property, meandering through the scrub brush. He pictures himself settling here and imagines how, with time and money, he might help the ranch thrive.