Bury Your Horses

by Dan Dowhal

  That night’s dinner is a sombre affair despite the ample meal of pork chops, mashed potatoes, and greens. The women of the ranch all seem withdrawn, eating with their heads down. Taking their cue from the morose adults, the kids chew back their words along with the food. Shane feels like the nexus of the uncertain mood, as if somehow the acceptance and trust he previously gained has diminished during his absence.

  “How did you happen to meet that Beñat fellow?” he asks in an attempt to spark conversation. “Seems like a real hermit type, and he lives way off the beaten path, to put it mildly.”

  “Some Injun feller took Bobby … my husband … up there for the first time when word got around he was fixin’ to start raising rattlesnakes. Me and the young ’uns been making the trip regular since Bobby passed. No way we’d be able to make a go of it without the snakes and critters he rounds up for us. All he asks in return is a box of vittles and some camp supplies. Works out pretty good for us.”

  “Bit of a weirdo, don’t you think?”

  “Weirdo? Do tell. Compared to what? A man with a wife and baby who decides he wants to wrangle rattlers and gives away his cattle? Maybe he needs to get drunk and smack a woman around some … that’s certainly not considered weird around these parts.”

  “I like him,” Gracie says, her face looking serious and grown up, like a magistrate passing judgment. “He’s always laughing. And he lets me ride his burro.” She turns to her mother. “Mama, if we can’t have a horse, can we at least have a burro?”

  Shane opens his mouth to reiterate that he is willing to cover all the expenses of a horse for Gracie, but a pre-emptive don’t-you-dare look from Tammy cuts him off.

  “We’ll talk about it some other time, Gracie,” she tells her daughter kindly but firmly. “School tomorrow. If you’re done eating, then you’re excused. Go fetch your homework books and we’ll have a look at what needs doing.”

  That signals the dissolution of the dinner gathering, and Shane takes on clean-up duties in the hopes of getting a chance to talk to Tammy alone, but the opportunity never manifests itself. At the end of the evening, as he and Vern are being ushered out of the ranch house, he waits until the boy has ambled out of earshot before asking Tammy softly, “Will I see you tonight?”

  There is, at least, a moment of vacillation before she shakes her head. “It’s that time of the month, remember?”

  “I don’t care. I mean, I’m happy just to hold you. I’ve missed you.”

  “Maybe tomorrow,” she murmurs in response and closes the door. Shane stands looking into the kitchen window until the interior light goes out, then he finally turns and heads to the stable.

  The rattlesnakes in their cages herald his arrival with scrapes and hisses. “Fuck this,” he tells them, “I’m going to get drunk.” After all, first as the paramour to a teetotaler, and then as the conscientious shepherd of Vern, he has gone several days without even a beer, peyote trip notwithstanding. But when he gets back to the toolroom he discovers his bottle of liquor is empty. At first he supposes Maybelline snuck in during his absence, but then he remembers Tammy’s drunken episode involving the consumption — and subsequent expulsion — of the remainder of the bottle.

  Shane does, however, still have a bottle of premium mezcal gift-wrapped for Doc Sanchez. He could just drink it, given the doctor doesn’t even know of its existence, but feeling the need for some sympathetic company, Shane decides to deliver the gift — and then suggest that they drink it together. When Shane starts the truck, not caring that he hasn’t asked permission to borrow it, he sees a shape silhouetted at Tammy’s bedroom window as he drives off.

  Doc Sanchez seems genuinely delighted to see Shane, even before the mezcal is produced. The doctor rips the wrapping paper from the bottle and exclaims with delight when he sees the label. “Del Maguey Minero! You remembered.”

  “I’ve been meaning to drop it off for a while now. Sorry, I’ve been a little preoccupied.”

  “Yes, yes. The yummy Yolanda told me you’d gone to Albuquerque.” Doc Sanchez winks at Shane and nudges him with his elbow. “She also said you’ve been doing the nasty with Tammy. Congratulations! At one time I figured that fortress was impenetrable. I assume the little blue pills have worked their magic.”

  “What the fuck? That’s supposed to be a secret. Tammy and me, I mean.”

  “Ha! You think there’s such a thing as a secret between three women sharing a small house? Don’t worry, amigo. Yolanda says the children are still in the dark.”

  Sanchez produces two glasses and pours a hefty shot into each. “To you and Tammy,” he toasts. “I have to be frank, though. I hope you’re not resting on your laurels. Yolanda is skeptical your hookup will last … no offence intended.”

  “So, you and Yolanda are bosom buddies now?”

  “No, but I sure would love to buddy up with those bosoms.” He laughs heartily at his own joke. “Actually, I have made some progress on that front. Today, we just talk. Tomorrow?” He pats his tummy and laughs again. “What woman can resist such a hunk of machismo for long?”

  “Yeah, well, you might want to get your hunk of machismo to a gym, Doc … no offence intended. Why does Yolanda think Tammy and I are iffy? Has Tammy said something?”

  Sanchez frowns. “Let’s just say the woman has trust issues … and who can blame her? I saw first-hand the abuse she suffered from her husband. Many a night I got called to the ranch to treat her, and I was expected to believe she was the world’s clumsiest woman, allegedly always tripping on stairs or bumping into doors.”

  “And you never reported it — the physical abuse?”

  “I had suspicions, but that’s all they were without corroboration. Tammy would never admit what really happened, at least not until after her husband got himself blown up in Iraq. But, as far as you and Tammy go, the gist of it is that Tammy feels you’re hiding something from her … which we both know is true. Never underestimate women’s intuition.”

  “Yeah, I feel bad about that. I’ve wanted to tell her the truth, but it just never seems like the right moment. I mean, it’s not exactly a great opener, is it? ‘Hi, I’m one of the most hated guys in North America right now, and by the way, some yahoo DA in Chicago may charge me for murder. Want to hook up?’”

  Sanchez chuckles. “Nonetheless, I would advise you to take care of that before tomorrow evening. When the shit hits the fan, it’s always messy.”

  “What’s happening tomorrow?”

  “CelebTV, of course.”

  “You know about that?”

  Doc Sanchez jerks his thumb toward the flatscreen television mounted to the wall above them. “Hell, yeah. They’ve been promoting the crap out of it all weekend. ‘No-holds-barred interview with disgraced hockey goon Shane Bronkovsky. Monday night, exclusively on CelebTV.’ Frankly, I’m surprised you’d take that chance. They’re shamelessly sycophantic panderers most of the time, unless they go after someone for ratings … then their jaundiced journalism is like doing surgery with a screwdriver. The patient always dies a gruesome death.”

  Shane shrugs. “They’re paying really, really well, and I need the money. Besides, I got a chance to tell my side of the story. How bad can it be?”

  Doc Sanchez’s derisive laugh gives the answer. “This is CelebTV we’re talking about. Trust me, there’ll be no ‘my side of the story’ by the time they get through with you.”

  “Who cares what people think? Half of them are already after my head anyway,” Shane says, and shoots back the rest of his mezcal. He is not as blasé as he is trying to sound, however, as he recalls the way he was verbally ambushed in the studio.

  Sanchez refills Shane’s glass. “And what about Tammy?” he asks. “Do you care what she thinks?”

  “She won’t see it, though, will she? I mean, there’s no TV or internet at the ranch.”

  Doc Sanchez shakes his head sadly. “Shane, Shane, Shane. For someone who’s performed in the media spotlight, you’re pretty naive when it com
es to appreciating the intensity of that spotlight’s glare. We’re not talking about a Northern sports story anymore. No, sir, CelebTV has tens of millions of viewers. Sooner or later, Tammy will find out, if only through the grapevine. I think it should be sooner, and it should come from you.”

  Shane swirls the mezcal in his glass, studying the liquor’s eddies as if a solution to his dilemma might be hiding there. “You’re right, Doc. Tomorrow, when the kids are at school, I’ll tell her everything. Like I said, I’ve been meaning to do it for a while now.”

  “Buena fortuna, amigo. I’ll be rooting for you. I hope it works out, I really do. But — and sorry if I sound like the voice of gloom and doom here — what are you going to do if it all goes south?”

  “You mean if Tammy gives me the boot?”

  “Well, there’s that, but I was thinking more along the lines of what’ll you do if they charge you with Linton’s death? Will you go back to stand trial?”

  “Don’t see that I’ll have a choice.”

  “Of course you’ll have a choice. When things go south you can always go south.”

  “You mean Mexico?”

  “Exactly. Don Aléjandro is hoping there are no hard feelings, now that you’ve got your motorcycle back, and that you’ll help coach Los Lobos. You did promise us an answer soon.”

  “I guess it would beat hiding out in the mountains for the rest of my life.”

  “It would be perfect for you, Shane. At least come and check out the new arena. Technically, it’s the off-season for La Liga, but we’re paying our new recruits to practise all summer … get a leg up on next year. That’s how serious we are about building a top-notch team. You could meet the guys, watch them skate … you know, get a feel for things. What do you say?”

  “That psycho Enrique isn’t involved with the team in any way, is he, Doc?”

  “He’s too busy with other business to concern himself with Los Lobos. Look, I’m his godfather. I’ve known him since he was a little crybaby filling his diapers. Trust me. I know how to handle him.”

  Shane recalls the crazed look on Enrique’s face as he put a gun to Shane’s head out on the highway. “Somehow I doubt it, Doc.”

  “Don Aléjandro considers the matter between you and his son closed. You’re under his protection now. In this precarious world, Shane, there are worse places to be, believe me.”

  Shane’s face must betray his skepticism, because the doctor tops up their glasses and tactfully changes subjects. “Will you be watching your big CelebTV broadcast tomorrow night? You’re welcome to catch it here.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I never watch my own interviews. I hate the way I look on camera, even when they’re not doing a hatchet job on me. No, hopefully I’ll be having dinner as usual at the ranch.”

  “Rattlesnake fillet?” the doctor asks, a grin cleaving his face. He holds up his glass. “I don’t know how you can handle it without a stiff drink.”

  “Actually, now that I’m springing for the groceries, the menu has improved a helluva lot. Next I’m thinking of buying one of those big-ass stainless-steel grills. Then I’ll be grilling big thick steaks every night.”

  “Careful, amigo. As your doctor, I must advise you that too much red meat is bad for you. Say what you will about rattlesnake, it’s lean and low in cholesterol.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  It is afternoon by the time Shane gets a chance to approach Tammy alone out in the stable. This is just as well, given he is nursing a Category 3 hangover and is having trouble working up the courage to confess his troubles to her.

  “You were out late last night,” she says before he has a chance to compose his opening remarks. Her back is turned to him as she repairs the latch on one of the snake cages.

  “Doctor’s appointment,” he answers. It is meant to be light-hearted, but comes across as evasive.

  “Do tell. I guess that liquor I’m smelling on you was taken for medicinal purposes, huh?”

  “Doc Sanchez and I had a few drinks, sure. As a matter of fact, he offered me a job.”

  “He gonna dress you up in a short skirt with white stockings and make you his nurse?”

  “Very funny. Actually, he offered me an assistant coaching job with his Mexican League hockey team.”

  “The Lobos? Shane, do you know who owns that team?”

  He shrugs. “If I’d worried about the moral character of all my team owners, my hockey career would have been a short one. But, speaking of my career, I need to tell you something —”

  “The man’s a narco. Do you have any idea what that means?”

  “I’m not stupid, Tammy. Of course I know what that means.”

  “No, I don’t think you do. This was a quiet, law-abiding town until their drug money snuck across the border, and our mayor, police chief, and city manager done got caught up in it. I thank the Lord Almighty we have the wall to help keep that filth and their violence and drugs out of the U.S. of A.”

  “The drugs are coming across anyway, despite the wall, and you know why? Because the U.S. wants them, that’s why. We create the demand. They just fill it.”

  “Who cares about a bunch of heroin junkies? We should round ’em all up and ship them behind the wall … it would serve ’em right.”

  “Heroin? That’s only a tiny part of it. There’s coke, and pot, and ecstasy — all the party drugs. The kids, their parents, their teachers, businessmen, cops, senators … hell, everybody does it, Tammy.”

  “Well, I don’t do drugs, and I won’t tolerate anyone who does.” Her eyes, to this point narrowed in determination, suddenly open wide. “Great balls of fire! You ain’t just drinking … you’re doing drugs, too, ain’t ya?”

  “Of course not.” It is technically true. Shane long ago exhausted what little cocaine and marijuana were left in his bag. Still, his conscience starts to pulse. It occurs to him that for something that started out as an attempt to come clean with Tammy, the conversation has stumbled off the path and gotten lost in the underbrush.

  Tammy has not said another word, and Shane can feel the searchlight of her scrutiny looking for telltale signs of treachery. He decides to wait for a more suitable moment to confess his predicament. He is confident that he has time. She has not seen any of the previous media sensationalism surrounding Shane and is equally unlikely to know about the CelebTV interview yet.

  “Look, babe, the only job I really want is being your man and helping out around here. You know you can trust me, don’t you?”

  Tammy bites her lower lip. “I don’t know what I know anymore. I hate myself for trusting you and I hate myself for not trusting you, all at the same time.”

  She steps closer and pounds her fists on his pectoral muscles softly, almost tenderly. Suddenly, like a fountain gushing forth, she starts bawling and presses her face into his chest, wetting the front of his T-shirt with her tears. Shane just stands there, no suitable words finding their way to his tongue. Women and their tears have always been a deep mystery, seemingly straightforward on the surface, but concealing a multidimensional maelstrom of meaning.

  When several seconds go by and she is still sobbing, he begins stroking her hair gently. He is not completely sure, but it sounds like the crying ebbs somewhat, so he rubs her back. He is fairly certain the massaging is having a soothing effect, so he follows the next logical progression in his mind, sliding his hand down to caress Tammy’s buttocks.

  She jerks back like she’s been jolted with a thousand-volt cattle prod and punches his chest again, this time with unambiguous rancour. “What the heck d’ya think you’re doin’?”

  “I was just trying to, you know, comfort you. Get you to stop crying. See? It worked … you’re not crying now.”

  “You big galoot, you was trying to feel me up. I’m bawlin’ my eyes out and all you can think of is to try to get it on with me?” She suddenly sends her fist flying at him — not some feeble, half-hearted swing, but an all-out attempt to injure directed at the vicinity of his head. O
ut of well-honed reflex Shane blocks the blow. Unfortunately, it is his injured hand that he uses to parry the punch, creating consequences for them both when Tammy’s swing thuds into the plaster cast.

  “Ow!” she yelps, bending over in anguish.

  “Aw, fuck!” Shane grimaces as his broken arm pulses with pain.

  They both stand there, groaning. When the initial rush of agony subsides to a tolerable aching throb, Shane opens his eyes. Tammy is flexing and relaxing her fist.

  “You hurt me,” she says with an accusatory tone.

  “Girl, you hurt yourself. I was just protecting myself.”

  “I think it’s busted,” she says. “Shoot! That’s all I need.”

  “Here, let me see.” When she looks skeptical, he adds, “Trust me. I’ve thwacked my knuckles on more helmets than I can count.”

  She allows him to examine her injury. He squeezes the fingers to see if there’s any lateral pain, but she doesn’t express any. Before releasing her hand, he kisses her fingers. “Looks like a bruised knuckle. Put some ice on it for the next couple of days and it should be fine. If it’s still giving you trouble after that, you can go have it X-rayed.”

  She sits staring at her hand, as though it is somebody else’s. “I guess I lost my temper,” she finally says, looking up at him. “But you sure ticked me off something fierce when you started pawing me like that in the middle of a good cry.”

  Several retorts spring to mind, but Shane wisely dekes around them, settling on what he has been taught is the only appropriate response a male can utter following an argument. “I’m sorry.”

  “The kids’ll be getting home from school soon. D’ya mind goin’ to fetch ’em? I’m gonna ice this down.”

  “What are you going to tell them … about the hand, I mean?”