by Dan Dowhal
Wandering in from the back of the property, he stumbles across Yolanda sitting astride his parked Ducati. She is clearly pretending that she is racing it down some imaginary highway, complete with accompanying sound effects coming from deep in her larynx.
“You’re revving it too high, Yolanda … shift, shift!” Shane calls out as a joke.
Yolanda turns, shocked to be caught play-acting like a child. She dismounts, but is too proud to slink away. Instead she stands there, hands on her hips, as if daring Shane to make a snarky comment.
But Shane, who knows a thing or two about confrontation, avoids eye contact and walks up to run his hand along the motorcycle’s windshield.
“The seat height’s actually pretty good for someone who’s shorter,” he comments. “Personally, I feel pretty crunched up on her, especially doing longer runs cross-country.” He finally ventures a glance into Yolanda’s face. She actually looks more surprised than hostile. “You ride?” he asks her.
Yolanda hesitates, but her expression softens. “My brother had a couple of motorcycles. I’d ride his dirt bike, but sometimes he’d let me take out his Five Hundred … mostly to keep me quiet when he’d done something he didn’t want my padre to find out about.” She reaches out and gives the handlebar a twist.
“You want to take her for a little spin?” Shane offers on impulse. He has never let anyone else ride his motorcycle, but senses an opportunity to make peace with Yolanda.
“No shit?” she asks, her dark eyes hovering between delight and suspicion.
“Sure, what the hell.” He extracts the key from his pocket and fires up the machine. It emits a deep roar from the exhaust system that makes Yolanda smile. “You like that, eh? The salesman called it desmodromic … comes from the L-twin cylinders. Go on, hop aboard.”
Yolanda mounts, and Shane helps her push the motorcycle off the kickstand. “She’s a lot of machine, so be careful. You probably won’t have to take her past second.” He is relieved when, instead of gunning it for power, Yolanda slips the cycle into gear and gingerly applies the throttle. At first it appears she is having a little trouble keeping her balance, and Shane questions his decision to let her ride, but with additional speed the motorcycle straightens out, and Yolanda rolls down the driveway. He watches her turn around at the ranch’s entrance, and on the return leg it is evident she has quickly gained some confidence in handling the Ducati. She pulls up, waves off Shane’s assistance, and labours to put the motorbike up on its kickstand by herself.
She turns the engine off, and looks up at him, a wide smile on her face that makes her seem years younger.
“Madre de Dio! That’s some bike,” she exclaims. “I never even got it out of first. How fast can it go?”
“I’ve had it up to one eighty, but they say it’ll do two hundred. Zero to sixty in, like, three seconds.” Shane flashes his cast. “Of course, it’s the coming back down to zero you have to watch out for.”
“What’s something like that go for?”
“A lot … too much, I guess, but I could afford it at the time. Let’s just say that it costs a hell of a lot more than most cars do.”
“Ie, Chingao! Boys and their toys,” she comments. She swings her leg over and swivels sideways on the seat so she can face Shane. “Tammy’s real riled up at you, in case you’re too thick to notice.”
“Gee thanks, but I kinda figured that out already. It’s why I’m out here instead of in there.”
“Can’t make you out. Not many guys would have done what you did last night.”
“I didn’t do nothing.”
“That’s my point. All the hombres I know pour liquor down a woman’s throat just to try to get her in the state Tammy was last night.”
“Sounds like you’ve been hanging around the wrong kind of men.”
She laughs. “Do tell. But there ain’t many of the right kind around here … or anywhere else, for that matter. You must be some freak that blew in with the wind. Hey, you’re not queer, are you? That would explain why you’re driving this fancy overpriced Wop-cycle instead of a homegrown chopper.”
For a moment, anger stirs inside Shane, but he realizes Yolanda’s insults are made in benign jest. He cracks a smile and strains to think of a retort. Shane’s job required him to learn how to take jabs — physical ones on the ice, as well as verbal ones in the locker room — but his hair-trigger temper often set his education back.
“You got me pegged. How else could I withstand your sexy Latina charms? Maybe I should just give the Ducati to you, man up, and buy a Harley instead, huh?”
“Órale!” she laughs. “Now you’re talking. Who needs a man with that hunk of machine purring between your legs?”
“I dunno. A bike won’t cuddle you afterward or take care of you when you’re sick.”
“Ha! Like a man would, either.” She spits in the dirt to emphasize her point. “You know what they say. Men are like horoscopes. They always tell you what to do and they’re almost always wrong.”
“Hey, I’ll admit there are a lot of assholes out there, but that doesn’t mean you just give up, does it? I mean, the right man could be just around the corner.”
“Sure, sure, I’ve heard it all before. There’s someone for everyone. Trust in true love. You have to kiss a lot of frogs before you meet Prince Charming. Ay caramba, you are queer. You sound like some teenage girl who’s been reading romance novels. That is, until the men come sniffing around, and she finds out they expect her to spend the rest of her life on her knees, either scrubbing or sucking.”
“I get it, Yolanda. You hooked up with the wrong man and got a raw deal. Think I can’t sympathize? Let me tell you, I’ve just been played for a sucker and cleaned out but good by a gold-digging bitch … does that mean I should figure every single woman is an evil witch? You tell me, aren’t there any good women out there?”
Yolanda pounds herself hard on the chest. “I’m a good one.” She flicks a thumb toward the ranch house. “And there’s good ones in there, too … even that loca puta.”
“That’s just my point. I’m telling you there are plenty of good men out there, too.”
She laughs. “Sure, if you say so. But, believe me, the second they hear my story, they’re gonna go running for the hills.”
“What about Doc Sanchez?”
“No manches! That pig? He’s always hitting on every skirt for a hundred miles around — and on both sides of the border.” She spits again, but then looks up at Shane, a peculiar shine in her eye, like a crescent moon reflected on the surface of a dark lake. “Why … did he say he was interested?”
Yolanda suddenly looks like a lovestruck schoolgirl and Shane has to fight not to laugh. “He said he needed a woman like you to keep him in line.” She snorts, and Shane senses she’s disappointed by the answer. “I think all that flirting and stuff with women is just, you know, some kind of macho act,” he offers. “I got the distinct impression he’s seriously sweet on you.”
“Ha! For what? For me to go live in his truck?”
“Well, I guess that depends on what you’re looking for, don’t it? Maybe you’d be happy to stay right here on Tammy’s ranch forever. If not, maybe the doc is the sort of man that needs a woman lighting a fire under him. I’ll be honest, first time I met the guy I wasn’t too keen on him, either. Hell, he stuck a gun in my crotch. But I truly think that behind that big hat and big moustache —”
“And big belly.”
They both laugh at that.
“Yeah, and behind that big belly, too, there’s what you say you’re looking for — a decent man. My game sheet may not be so hot when it comes to women, but as far as men go, I’m a pretty good judge of character.”
She makes a sour face, but it looks to Shane like she’s processing what he’s said. “What you gonna do about Tammy?” she asks, changing the subject.
“I don’t know. Keep my distance for a while, I guess. I tried apologizing, but she only got madder. Anyway, I got things to try t
o figure out.”
“You planning on staying a while, or what?”
“I dunno. Yeah. Maybe.”
“’Cause, I’m telling you right now, if you’re fixing to take off soon, then don’t go messing with my girl.”
“I thought you didn’t want me here.”
Yolanda shrugs. “What do I know? Sounds like my track record with the opposite sex ain’t no better than yours. But let me give you one piece of advice, hombre. If you’re serious about Tammy and plan on hanging around, then don’t go giving her no space, figuring she’ll come running to you. A gal likes to be wooed, you know. Oh, sure, she may take a strip off you, but, órale, you look like you’ve been in a scrap or two in your time. I’m sure you can take it.”
As she has been talking, Yolanda has unconsciously taken the Grim Reaper necklace out from under her blouse and started rubbing it, evidently out of habit. Shane nods at the piece of jewellery. “That’s a weird-looking piece of bling, Yolanda. I’ve been meaning to ask you about it.”
She frowns. “You don’t know? This is the Skinny Lady, Santa Muerte … Sacred Death. I worship her, and she keeps me safe.”
“No offence, but from what I’ve heard about your past, I don’t think she’s doing such a great job.”
“Oh, no, I turned to her after, when I was in prison. A lot of the Latina women there believe in her. Tammy don’t approve, but she lets me be. The Catholic priests preach against her, too, but I think they’re scared how popular she’s become down South. Millions worship her now. Trust me, Shane, Santa Muerte can work miracles. Her magic is very old and very powerful.”
Shane spends the afternoon working on the ranch’s outdoor hand pump, which evidently seized up some time ago. Despite his manual handicap, he manages to take apart the pump’s housing and lubricate the individual interior pieces with grease. He then reassembles the mechanism. Grunting like an old boar, he labours at the handle, and just as he is about to give up, is rewarded by a trickle of rusty liquid dribbling from the spout. Another minute of pumping delivers a steady gush of cold, fresh water with each downstroke.
He grins and, stripping naked to the waist, begins washing off some of the perspiration coating him, finally sticking his head directly under the flow of water. As he does so, his eye catches the flutter of curtains in the kitchen, and he makes out a silhouette standing at the window. He realizes that he is hoping it’s Tammy watching him — not so she can admire his physique, but so she can see what he has accomplished and how much of a help he is to her and the ranch. At that moment, the depth of Shane’s feelings for Tammy becomes undeniable.
He hikes into the sun-soaked desert to dry off, and while he’s at it, to try to crystallize the fuzzy thoughts in his head. Standing in appreciation of the arcane beauty around him, he notices splashes of colour among the scrub brush’s plants. Upon closer scrutiny, he finds a variety of small blossoms that have popped up with the coming of spring.
Given that he has no plan of his own, Shane decides to take Yolanda’s advice, and he begins gathering flowers to bring to Tammy. Despite encountering prickles and spines, he cuts a few paddles of the yellow and pink blossoms from prickly pear cacti and stalks of the red flowers of ocotillo plants.
Once he has assembled an improvised bouquet, Shane goes looking for Tammy. He finds her in the stable, cleaning out snake cages, and with an audience of vipers, he presents her with the flowers.
Her eyebrows arch in surprise, but she accepts the gift and stands mutely sniffing the blossoms. Her expression is indecipherable.
“Look, Tammy, I’m so, so sorry for what I did,” Shane blurts out. “Drinking behind your back was wrong. It was lying to you, and I never want to keep anything from you again. But I swear, nothing went on between me and Maybelline, and that’s the truth. We had a few drinks and chatted … mostly about how great you are, although I didn’t need her to tell me that.”
Tammy continues sniffing the flowers, but she is at least looking up at him now. Shane can see both sides of her life written in her face — hardship etched in lines around her eyes, vitality sparkling in her grey irises.
He pauses briefly, hoping she will join in the conversation and save him from having to forage for words to express feelings he barely understands himself. But still, she says nothing, so he plunges forward. “But, damn it, I’m not sorry for what I did last night, or, rather, didn’t do … not jumping your bones when you were all over me. I mean, you were really pissed off and piss drunk, and it just didn’t feel right, Tammy. It’s not what I want with you.”
“What do you want?” she asks, finally breaking her silence.
“I … I wish I could give you an easy answer. I mean, we just met, and we’re not kids, and as for me, well …” He wants to tell her about his fear of not being able to please her in bed and the legal problems dogging him. He told her he didn’t want to keep things from her and meant it, yet he still cannot utter the words that will humiliate him and possibly obliterate his chance with her. “I just want you to know me, the real me. God, I wish you could be inside my head right now, Tammy, and feel what I’m feeling. I really want to be with you. You’re different than all the other women I’ve known, especially since the divorce. They’ve all been these really beautiful women —”
“And I’m not?”
“No, no, I mean, yes, you’re beautiful. But in a different way, a real way. From the inside, not just the outside. Those other women, once you took away their clothes and makeup, there was nothing to them. Like some of those nancy-boy hockey players from Europe. All fancy skating and showing off, but afraid to take a hit or go into the corner after the puck. Funny, all my life I’ve been hearing how true beauty comes from within, but I never knew what they meant until I met you.”
He is pleased with that last statement, at having verbalized his feelings almost poetically — at least by his standards. There is a peculiar look on Tammy’s face, and for a second he is hopeful that she is about to kiss him. Instead, however, she shoves the flowers into his chest.
“Sweet talk, that’s all it is. Bobby was real good at that, too. That man could talk his way out of the doghouse or into my bed real easy. Well, just look where it got me. When push comes to shove, I ain’t met a feller yet who knows how to put his money where his mouth is.” She turns her back on Shane and goes back to the cages.
Shane stands frozen, confused as to what she does or doesn’t want from him.
“I meant what I said, Tammy. It’s not just words. What do you want me to do? How can I prove it to you?”
She sighs and shakes her head. “Look, I ain’t havin’ a good day, okay? Why don’t you just give it a rest.” A wry smile squirms onto her face. “Unless you want to help me clean these cages.”
“Clean? Sure, I can do that.”
“Of course, you gotta git the snake out first.”
Shane feels a shudder crawl up his spine and onto the back of his neck, knowing he is trapped by his own words. “Show me what to do,” he says, his mouth suddenly dry.
Tammy demonstrates the technique: she opens the cage and uses her metal wrangling rod to pin the rattler to the floor. Then, as Shane witnessed on milking day, she grabs the serpent behind its triangular head and tosses it unceremoniously into a new cage. After that, she removes the mat from the bottom of the used pen, shakes it off, and rinses it clean.
“All yours,” she says, her tone mocking, “assuming you’re man enough.”
Shane hands back the blossoms, takes the wrangling rod from her, and approaches the next cage in line. When he unhooks the door, the rattlesnake opens its mouth and hisses at him, offering an excellent view of its nasty-looking curved fangs. Shane wavers, but after catching Tammy’s look of doubt, he opens the door a crack. The snake initially undulates backward, but then, like a bolt of lightning, it lunges toward him. Even though the wire of the cage protects him, Shane cringes and jerks his hand away.
“Ha! Macho man. Even Gracie did better than that first time
out,” Tammy laughs.
Shane feels anger rise up and spill over his face. He turns to spew heated words at Tammy — his mouth even opens to deliver the first phoneme — but when he sees her amused smile and shining eyes full of humour but devoid of malice, he realizes that he’s actually mad at himself for having flinched. Using his anger to motivate himself, Shane flings the door open and pins down the serpent in one quick motion. He changes hands so the left one with the cast wields the metal rod, then reaches in with his good hand and seizes the rattler behind its head. Before he can fully contemplate what he is doing, he pulls the snake out and tosses it into a clean cage.
His hand is shaking as he withdraws it and quickly closes the door. In fact, his whole body is awash with adrenalin and residual anger. He takes a look at Tammy and sees that she is now standing with her mouth open.
“Well, I’ll be darned,” she says softly, as if to herself. Then she seems to collect herself, and her face sets again. “See, what did I tell you? Nothin’ to it. And don’t go patting yourself on the back quite yet. There’s another couple of dozen cages to go, yet.” But then she touches him on the arm, and her tone softens. “Sorry, I forgot about your broken hand. How’s about we do ’em together? It’ll go faster that way. I’ll wrangle and you clean. I mean, if it’s okay by you.”
EIGHTEEN
Dinner that night is the most convivial one Shane has yet had at the ranch. The atmosphere is downright festive. Thanks to his contribution to the house larder, they enjoy a hardy meal of chicken-fried steak, spinach, and candied yams, with an abundance of extra helpings, plus cherry pie for dessert. There is plenty of joking and unabashed laughter, led by Maybelline, who has clearly patched up her differences with Tammy. Even Vern has abandoned his usual hangdog look and is grinning between forkfuls.
For the first time since he hopped across their threshold, Shane doesn’t feel that anyone at the kitchen table resents his presence. Yolanda still sends periodic barbs his way, but they are accompanied by smiles and lack malevolence, as well as being directed more at his gender than at him personally. Shane suspects Yolanda knows no other way of dealing with the opposite sex. Or perhaps she is merely pandering to her audience; any man-bashing joke generates instant horse laughs from the other two women. So Shane chuckles along and contributes some stories of particularly gross or ignorant teammates he has known.