by Dan Dowhal
“The roof? What are you talking about?”
“You know. Aunt Flo is coming to visit.”
“Oh. You never mentioned that. Is she coming, like, tomorrow? We’d be back in a couple of days.”
“Geez, Louise, you can be thick sometimes. What I’m trying to tell you is there’s gonna be a crime scene in my pants and I’m doing the time right now.”
Now Shane is totally confused, and his face shows it. Tammy rolls her eyes.
“You know … the red badge of courage … riding the crimson tide. Oh for Chrissake, Big Hoss, I’m trying to tell you, that time of the month is comin’ and I ain’t feeling none too good, okay?”
“Oh, geez, I get you. Sweetie, that doesn’t have to stop you.”
“Well, you ain’t the one that has to deal with it, are you? I said I’m not up to it, and that’s that. Now leave me be.”
Shane opens his mouth to ask about borrowing the pickup truck, but thinks better of it.
“Whatever you want,” he acquiesces and leaves.
On his way out he almost falls over Maybelline, who is sitting on the back stoop, munching through a large bag of potato chips.
“Watch where you’re going, dickwad,” she says, not looking up from her snacking.
“Sorry, May. Didn’t see you. What’re you doing sitting there, anyway?”
She glares up at Shane. “I’ll darn well sit wherever I please. What’s it to you, Mr. Motorcycle Man … Mr. Fix It Even If It Ain’t Broke … Mr. Won’t Drink With Li’l Ol’ Maybelline No More Now That He’s Bopping Tammy?” She finishes by flinging a potato chip at him.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m getting ready to punctuate. Go away and leave me be.”
This time Shane is a little faster to clue in.
“Punctuate, as in …”
“A period with an exclamation mark. That’s right. So just go away and leave me alone to die in peace, Mr. Broken Teeth, Broken Arm, Broken Promises.”
“Maybelline, I’m sorry we don’t party together anymore, but, you know … Tammy and all.”
“Oh, I know, so go blow, Joe.”
“Don’t worry, I’m going, all right. Going to Albuquerque for the weekend, as a matter of fact. Better Albuquerque than here, with two women PMSing at the same time.”
“Ha! You don’t know the half of it, or two-thirds … whatever! Just take my advice: stay away from Yolanda. That chica gets really nasty this time of the month.”
Shane walks off shaking his head, still trying to fathom the situation as he rounds the corner of the ranch house. Vern is lurking there, and he practically jumps on top of Shane.
“Did I hear you saying you’re going to Albuquerque? Take me with you, Shane! Please, you gotta let me come along. I can’t take it again. Last time they practically tore me apart.”
“Let me get this straight. This has happened before? All three of them got their period at the same time?”
“It happened once before, about a year-or-so back. They all turned into monsters. No word of a lie. It was horrible. I don’t think I’d live through it a second time. Please, please, take me with you!”
Shane has an idea. “All right, but only if you can wrangle us using the truck. I mean, they’re not going to need it here, are they?”
Vern brightens. “No, they never go anywhere on the weekends, especially when they’re crabbin’ like that.” His face gets serious again as he contemplates the enormity of the challenge. “Aw, man, I ain’t sure I want to go in there an’ ask Aunt Tammy for the truck, though. She’s already mean enough to me when she ain’t playin’ for the Red Wings.”
“Ha! Playing for the Red Wings — good one. I almost played for them once —” He stops when he sees Vern’s confused look. “Never mind, long story. But we’re going to need that truck, Viper. No way I can ride my motorcycle all the way to Albuquerque and back with a broken hand.”
Vern sighs heavily and hangs his head. “Shoot,” he mutters, kicking the dirt. Suddenly his face pops back up with a giant grin pasted on it.
“Beñat!” he exclaims.
Shane cocks an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”
“Beñat. He’s this old feller up in the hills … we bring him supplies, and in exchange he stocks us up with snakes and mice. They’ve been trading with him for years, and we’re overdue for another visit. Aunt Tammy hates making the drive up there … she’ll lend us the truck for that, for sure.”
Shane wrestles the pickup into gear, and as it grumbles down the driveway, a crate of groceries in back, he and Vern exchange a look of relief. They soon reach the interstate and turn north toward Albuquerque.
The remains of derelict roadside businesses and abandoned homesteads give way to true countryside. The truck has no radio, so Shane attempts some small talk, but Vern seems disinterested. He sits erect in his seat and stares out the window, scanning the landscape intently.
“Horses!” he suddenly shouts as they near a field where two sad-looking roans lean over the fence, looking laconically out over the highway. “Two for me.”
Shane is unsure what exactly the boy means, so he gives a neutral, affirming grunt. A few minutes later, however, Vern again hollers loudly. “Horses! Oh, boy, a whole bunch of them … four, no, five! Ha! I’m winning seven to nothin’.”
“Winning? What is this, some kind of horse-counting contest?”
“Ain’t ya never played Bury Your Horses? Gracie and me and Aunt Tammy always play it when we’re travelling.”
“Sorry, never heard of it. Mind you, you’ve got an advantage when it comes to looking around. I have to keep my eye on the road.”
“Yeah, but you’re way taller … you can see farther.”
Shane chuckles. “Okay, you’re on.”
The two of them prove fiercely competitive in their horse-spotting game. Shane closes the gap in the score with a string of single-horse sightings, but Vern has a knack for finding small herds, and he surges to a comfortable lead again as the scenery wavers between brown, stunted scrub brush as sparse and dry as Rancho Crótalo and lush, tree-filled terrain testifying to the life-giving presence of water. Then they round a curve, and there, grazing on a hillside, is a riot of horse flesh — palominos, Appaloosas, creams, greys, and several with pure black coats. The herd is so large it’s hard to count them all.
Vern’s eyes widen, but although his mouth pops open, he is mute in his amazement. It is Shane who first calls out, “Horses!”
“Shoot! I saw them, too,” the boy gripes.
“Maybe, but I called it first,” Shane says and hastens to tally up the horses before they’re out of sight. “Wow, there must be fifty of them, easy. It’ll be tough to catch me now.”
“I don’t want to play no more,” Vern whines and slumps down in his seat.
“Come on now, Viper,” Shane urges, “for all you know there might be a herd even bigger than that one up ahead somewhere. Never give up — that’s the secret to life. Always keep trying your best. But you can’t win them all, so it’s important to learn how to take your losses in stride. Don’t you want to be a good loser?”
“I’d rather win,” Vern says.
“Everybody wants to win, buddy, but not everybody can. The important thing is to try your hardest and have fun. I knew guys who went their whole pro careers and never even made the playoffs, let alone won the Cup. Heck, take that rabbit we saw.” Shane is referring to earlier in the drive, when a jackrabbit dashed across the highway in front of them, narrowly avoiding their vehicle and giving them both a scare. “For that rabbit, winning is finding enough to eat and not getting eaten by some coyote.”
“And not getting squished by a car,” Vern adds.
“See, kid, you’ve got it,” Shane replies, and they both laugh. There is a warmth spreading inside him. Shane has spent much of his adult life being looked down upon as a brute good only for his bulk and his fists; he almost started to believe it himself. It is a revelation to r
ealize that he has enough wisdom, much of it hard won, to offer guidance to the young.
As they approach Albuquerque, the roadside becomes progressively more industrialized, and opportunities for spotting horses all but disappear. Shane consults a map and chooses an alternate two-lane highway that loops through more countryside before feeding into the city. But although they encounter suburban estates and golf courses, no ranches or farm fields appear.
Suddenly, however, Vern springs upright in his seat, spins around to look behind him, and shouts, “Bury your horses! Bury your horses!”
“What the heck are you talking about?” Shane asks. “I didn’t see any horses.”
Vern gives him a look of disbelief. “We’re playing Bury Your Horses, remember?”
“You get a point for every horse you call out first, you said.”
“Yeah, but you lose all your points if someone sees a cemetery and calls it first. And I saw one back there.”
Shane considers the situation for a few seconds, then pulls over onto the shoulder. “I didn’t see any cemetery,” he says.
“I swear, I’m not lying. I saw it. Back there. It was really little, but it was a cemetery, all right.” The boy looks like he’s about to cry, and his manner is so earnest Shane cannot bring himself to dismiss the claim. He puts the truck into reverse and slowly backs along the shoulder.
“There it is,” Vern calls out.
In front of a large field sits an anomalous parcel of land, barely the size of a tennis court, surrounded by a stone wall. In front of it the highway’s shoulder widens into a parking area, which Shane steers into. A stone obelisk about five feet high stands in the middle of the plot.
“Looks more like a monument to me,” Shane comments, but seeing the sincerity in Vern’s face, he suggests they get out for a closer look.
Sure enough, there are also headstones, most lying horizontal, practically buried in the grass, but also a handful of polished marble grave markers standing upright at the back, eclipsed by the obelisk.
“Well, it’s the smallest one I’ve ever seen, but I’d have to say this officially qualifies as a cemetery,” Shane announces.
“I win! I win! Ha, ha, I beat you!”
Vern’s taunting irritates Shane, but he has decades of experience losing. Moreover, he has just admonished the boy to be a good loser. He smiles and pats Vern on the shoulder. “Nice play. Way to beat the clock and pull out a come-from-behind win. But, um, remember what I said about being a good loser? It’s even more important to learn how to be a good winner.”
Vern blanches. “Holy cow. You’re right … I hated it when other teams rubbed it in after they beat us.” He straightens up and offers Shane his hand. “Good game, Shane. I thought you had me … I was lucky to win.”
“That’s better,” Shane tells him. “Hey, we’re both winners in my book, so when we get to Albuquerque, I’m going to buy us some ice cream.” He turns back toward the stone monument. “That’s one flashy chunk of marble. Must belong to some rich guy.” He bends over to read the inscription. “Didn’t die too long ago, either. Oh well, even with a private plot and big-ass gravestone, rich is just as dead as poor.”
They climb back into the truck and finish the drive into the city. Shane’s interview is still several hours away, and he wants to buy some conservative attire for his interview, so he finds a shopping mall where he and Vern can use the bathroom and grab some lunch, and he can fulfill his promise of ice cream.
They check in at the hotel, where Morrie Getz has booked them a modest-sized suite. There are two king-sized beds, and they each choose one and spread out over the mattress, relishing the indulgence after the spartan sleeping arrangements of the ranch.
There is a message asking Shane to touch base with the CelebTV crew upon arrival. Once he has confirmed the time and location of his interview that evening, he takes the opportunity to use the bathroom. After luxuriating in a hot shower, he shaves, taking great care not to nick himself.
When he comes out, Vern is channel surfing on the TV, mesmerized by the cavalcade of images on the screen. Suddenly apprehensive the boy might stumble across coverage of Ken Linton’s death, Shane helps him locate a kid-friendly movie to watch.
Between worrying about his interview and concerns that Vern might see Shane being vilified by the media, Shane’s mood blackens. When he’s ready to leave for his session, he turns to Vern. “I’ll be back in an hour. I don’t want you watching any adult stuff, got it?”
Something about Shane’s intense manner clearly disturbs the boy. He instantly slumps and refuses to make eye contact. “Yessir,” he mumbles.
This has a sobering effect on Shane’s mood. He realizes that Vern, so lively and happy during the trip, now feels picked on again and is folding back into his usual unhappy state. Suddenly, Shane’s petulance seems self-indulgent, petty, and hurtful.
“Hey, sorry, Viper. I’m not mad at you, all right? I’m just a little worried about leaving you by yourself. I’m responsible for you, and I don’t want anything to happen, or I would never forgive myself. But it’s okay, because I know I can trust you.”
Vern brightens. “You bet you can. Don’t worry about a thing.”
Shane smiles and gives the boy’s shoulder a squeeze. “Atta boy. I knew I could count on you. If the movie finishes before I get back, you can watch cartoons or something like Nickelodeon, but it’s got to be kid stuff. Promise?”
“Okay, Shane. I promise.”
“All right, then. I won’t be long.”
Shane realizes that, sooner or later, everyone’s going to find out what he is hiding. But maybe if I give a good interview and tell my side of the story, it’ll help smooth things over, he thinks.
He checks the time and hurries out.
TWENTY-ONE
The hospitality suite where Shane is being interviewed is on a lower floor. During the elevator ride down, he tries to clear his head and concentrate on what he’s going to say. As before an important game, he feels the stirrings of anxiety in his abdomen. His earlier mall meal is all but McHappy as it roils in his stomach.
Thanks to the bouncer-like attendant standing outside, the suite is easy to find. Shane enters to find a dozen people waiting for him. It’s a larger crew than he anticipated, which unnerves him, but there’s no turning back now. Heads turn in unison as he enters, but the range of their expressions is less uniform. Some look curious, some excited, some outright hostile — or so it seems to him. A beautiful woman in a pink silk blouse and a form-hugging skirt breaks through the milling bodies and extends a hand. Her smile is friendly, almost seductive, showing bright white teeth. She looks vaguely familiar. Shane realizes she is the host of the CelebTV interview segment.
“Hi, Shane. I’m Julia Jansen. I’ll be interviewing you. I’m thrilled that you’ve agreed to talk with us.” She introduces him to various members of the crew, but all the names and titles wash over his head.
“Okay, then,” she says when the preliminaries are dispensed with. “Just sit down here and we’ll get you miked up.”
He takes the indicated seat in the glare of portable lights while a ponytailed sound technician steps in and starts snaking a cable down the inside of his shirt. Once the techie has clamped the lapel microphone to Shane’s shirt front and retreated back behind the wall of lights, Julia looks at her subject appraisingly. “You don’t mind if we dab a little makeup on you, do you?”
Shane has done many in-studio interviews during his career, and he knows the drill. They often apply powder to take away the shine and sometimes blush to add colour to the cheeks. The makeup artist introduces himself as Fabian and, after Julia whispers some instructions into his ear, goes to work. Fabian seems to take a lot of time, but Shane is relieved when he feels makeup being applied to his recent wounds. From past interviews, he appreciates how much of an impression stitches and abrasions leave and is grateful CelebTV wants him to look normal.
“All right, then,” Julia says, smiling radia
ntly as she takes a seat in front of him. “I know you’ve probably done this a gazillion times before, but just speak naturally. We’re not live, so if you flub something, don’t sweat it … we can fix it in the edit. Always look at me, not the lens. The main camera is right behind me, but we’ll be taking some fill-in shots with a handheld.” She gestures off to the side, and Shane notices, for the first time, a woman holding a formidable-looking portable video camera.
“Okay, then,” Julia continues. “Let’s get a sound check. Say something.”
“Um. Hi, everyone, my name’s Shane Bronkovsky. And this is my interview. How’s that?”
Julia receives a thumbs-up from the sound guy. “Fabulous. Let’s get started, then.” Abruptly, her smile disappears and her eyes narrow.
“Shane Bronkovsky, thank you for agreeing to talk with us exclusively here on CelebTV. I guess my first question is … how are you?” She says it like they’re on intimate terms and she really cares about his welfare.
“I’m doing okay, Julia, you know, all things considered. I mean, I’ve been through a lot.”
“So, where have you been the last couple of weeks?”
“Well, my team’s done, and I always take some time off at the end of a season. I’ve been doing some travelling on my motorcycle.”
“So … you just killed a man and you go sightseeing?”
Shane feels a rush of adrenalin. Look out, Bronk, he thinks, she’s coming after you. He struggles not to let the emotion reach his face. “I feel bad about what happened, Julia. It was a horrible accident, but there’s nothing I can do about it now except learn to live with it.”
“You claim it was an accident. What do you have to say to the people who believe you deliberately set out to hurt Ken Linton?”
“That’s ridiculous! It was a clean shot. He had his head down, that’s all.”
“That’s all? The man is dead. Do you deny you had a heated verbal exchange with Ken Linton earlier in the game?”