by Dan Dowhal
“I dunno, maybe I’ll tell them the truth: I hurt it walloping a big doofus.”
Shane offers to help the injured Tammy out by cooking dinner, but Yolanda steps in to take charge instead, resulting in a low-key meal of tortillas, beans, and rice. Although the children are told Tammy’s injury is due to some vague misfortune with the washing machine, Shane is certain, based on the way Yolanda is looking at him, that Tammy has told her the truth. It is not that Yolanda regards him with outright hostility, but more like she is hedging her bets, afraid her fledgling trust in him might have been a mistake.
The children, sensing the shadow over the meal, seem more interested in engaging with each other than with the adults. Watching them, Shane is convinced that a new friendship has blossomed between the pair since his arrival.
After helping to wash up, Shane leaves the uncommunicative kitchen clique to their moods and goes outside for some fresh air. It is a clear, warm night, and an almost-full moon lights the horizon, a half veil of thin clouds diffusing its light. He walks over to his Ducati and sits down on its seat to stare up into the sky, trying to find a point of balance for his teetering emotions. Behind them comes the squeak of the screen door followed by a slam as someone exits the ranch house.
He turns to see Yolanda walking toward him. She comes over and starts squeezing the controls of the motorcycle, making neither eye contact nor conversation.
Shane breaks the silence. “How’s Tammy’s hand?” he asks.
Yolanda shrugs. “She says it hurts. Worried she might have broken something.”
Shane knocks on the plaster of his cast. “This is hard, but not that hard. Her punch kind of glanced off. It’s not totally impossible that she has a hairline fracture of the proximal phalange or metacarpus, but I think it’s just a subperiosteal hematoma — a bone bruise.”
Yolanda clucks her tongue. “Does Sanchez know you’re invading his turf?”
Shane smiles and shows her the discoloured, oversized index knuckles on his right hand. “Tools of the trade.”
The sight seems to unsettle Yolanda, and she steps back from him. “Didn’t she tell you what happened?” Shane asks. “She started it.”
“And you just finished it, is that it?”
“It wasn’t like that. She was punching at me and hit the cast. What are you saying, if a man hits a woman he’s a monster, but if a woman comes after a guy he’s just supposed to take it?”
She shrugs. “Maybe … if the guy’s as big as you. What were you two fighting about, anyway?”
“It started with her being pissed about me going out for a few drinks last night. I honestly don’t know how it went off the tracks after that. Maybe she’s PMSing.”
“Careful, hombre, we get to use that as an excuse — you don’t. Anyway, she doesn’t seem to be holding a grudge, so I guess I won’t, either. It’s just, we’ve been through a lot, the three of us. I hope we haven’t made a mistake, you know, letting you into our lives. We’ll see … until today, I didn’t think so.”
There’s another slam, and Maybelline comes dancing out to join them.
“Shame, shame. Blame Shane for the pain,” she sings. “He’s afraid of a punching bag, just because she’s on the rag. Tick-tock, the see-through Doc. X marks the ray, today, today, today.”
Shane glances at Yolanda. “Lord help me,” he says, “I think I’m learning to speak Maybelline.” He turns back to the redhead. “Tammy wants her hand X-rayed pronto?”
Maybelline’s answer is an exaggerated bow at the waist and an Elvis impersonation. “Thank you, uh, thank you very much.”
Shane goes inside to check on the patient. While he remains convinced the injury is not serious, he doesn’t begrudge Tammy her desire for medical attention. She is sitting at the kitchen table with an ice pack on her hand watching Vern, who is helping Gracie with her arithmetic homework.
“Really hurts, huh?” Shane asks sympathetically. She nods, not looking up. He tries to examine her hand but she shakes her head, keeping it under the ice pack.
“Okay. Should we call the doc?”
“He don’t usually come out at night, less’n it’s life or death. I figured since you’re such a buddy of his now, you could drive me out to see him. It’ll beat going all the way to Deming and sitting around in the emerg.”
“Sure. What about the kids?”
“It’s Gracie’s bedtime, anyway,” she says — as much an announcement as a reply. “I’ll tuck her in and meet ya outside. Figured you could drive. I ain’t up to it.”
Outside, Yolanda announces she will accompany them. Shane wonders whether the Chicana is now reluctant to leave him alone with Tammy, or is seizing the opportunity to visit Doc Sanchez. The threesome pile into the truck and drive down to the border.
As they pull up, interior lights and the flickering of a TV screen indicate the doctor is at home. Shane has a brief moment of panic that his CelebTV interview might be on, then figures that since the show broadcasts from the Eastern Time Zone, it must be long over.
They approach the van, and Shane knocks on the door. Doc Sanchez throws open the door and bellows in greeting. “Shane! Speak of the devil. Bad news, amigo, you’re all over the news. It’s official, you’ve been charged with manslaughter.” Then he sees that Shane is not alone. “Oh. Buenas noches, señoras.”
“What’s he talking about, Shane?” Tammy asks. It’s clear from her tone that whatever isthmus of goodwill the couple has been tiptoeing across has been abruptly swept away.
“You didn’t tell her?” Sanchez asks. He smiles at Yolanda. “I told him to tell her, really I did. I’m all about honesty in a relationship.”
“Tell me what?” Tammy demands.
“I was involved in an accident in a hockey game in Chicago, and now the District Attorney is charging me. I’ll explain everything later. Let’s get you taken care of first.” He urges her inside. “Tammy’s hurt her hand, Doc. We were hoping you could do an X-ray. I’ll cover the expenses.”
“I don’t need your money,” Tammy spits out. “Besides, sounds like you’re going to need all your dough for a lawyer.”
An all-news network is playing, and the doctor goes to turn the TV off. “Leave it,” Tammy insists. “Might be something interesting on.” Her words drip with sarcasm. The doctor flashes Shane an apologetic look and goes about his examination.
Four people make for a tight fit in the mobile clinic, so Shane goes to sit in the passenger seat while Yolanda squeezes onto a stool offered by the doctor. The news channel has moved on to international coverage, but Shane knows from experience that they will soon come back around to any juicy story.
“How did it happen?” Sanchez asks as he studies Tammy’s hand.
“I was trying to punch this one here in the head and he blocked me with his cast.” The doctor cocks an eyebrow but stays silent. “Didn’t know plaster could be so goddanged hard,” she adds. “Hurts like heck.”
“My special mixture,” Sanchez comments with pride. “Let’s see if I’ll have to mix up another batch for you.”
As the doctor moves the X-ray machine into position, Tammy turns to look at Shane. “So? Do you want to explain what’s goin’ on?”
“Here? Now? In front of the others?”
“He already seems to know all about it, and she sure as Moses should.”
“Look, it’s just like I told you. It happened during a hockey game a few weeks ago. Me and another player collided. The guy fell and smacked his head on the ice. He died, but I swear to God, Tammy, it was a freak accident.”
“Then how come they’re charging you?”
“The guy that died was a big star, and now some DA is looking to capitalize on that and make a name for himself … at least that’s how it seems to me.”
“How come you didn’t tell me?”
“I was trying to put it all behind me, all right? My team … the league … they pretty much threw me out with the garbage. That’s how I ended up down here in the first p
lace. Then when I first met you, well, it’s not exactly the first thing that comes out of your mouth under the circumstances, is it?”
“But you still kept it from me after we … you know.”
“I wanted to tell you, Tammy, I really did. I was trying to tell you earlier today when you … um … when we had our little spiff.”
“I told him he should tell you,” Doc Sanchez interjects.
“You’re not helping, Doc,” Shane hisses. Anger is stirring, and he needs to take it out on someone.
“Tryin’ ain’t doin’, Mister,” Tammy fires back. She is clearly wrestling with the reins of her own wrath. “Don’t you think I deserved to know what kind of man was sleeping under my roof?”
“The same man I was ten minutes ago … but I’m not exactly sleeping under your roof, am I? You kick me and Vern out every night and lock the door, like you’re putting the dogs out.”
“Don’t get sassy with me, Mister. You know what I mean.” Now she turns on Doc Sanchez, who has been sitting back, watching the exchange. “Well, what in tarnation am I paying you for? Is it busted or ain’t it?” The doctor frowns and turns to consult a computer monitor nestled in the middle of his medical gear. He works the mouse and leans closer until his nose is practically touching the screen.
“There’s no sign of any fracture,” he proclaims after several seconds of intense scrutiny. “The knuckle bone’s badly bruised. Just keep icing it, and take some extra-strength Tylenol for the pain. Or I can write you a prescription, if you want something a little stronger.”
“I don’t need no pills makin’ me stupid, thanks just the same, Doc. I’m a woman — I reckon I was born to hurt.” Yolanda snickers at that one.
“Have it your way,” the doctor replies. “I’ll submit the paperwork. You’re not, in fact, paying me, though. Bobby’s GI insurance will cover it. You can go now, if you want. We’re done.”
Tammy shoots him a look but says nothing. She rises to her feet and turns to face Shane. “I want to believe you, Big Hoss, I want to trust you.” She lets the words hang.
“Then do. Trust your —”
“Don’t say it. Don’t say heart. Right now my heart feels like it’s been stomped by a Brahma bull, and my head’s spinning like that bull just took it for a ride at the rodeo. If my hand wasn’t so sore I swear I’d punch you in the nose.”
“I have some Percocet that will take care of that pain in no time,” Doc Sanchez interjects.
“You’re not helping, Doc,” Shane growls again.
“Oh, take a Valium. I can write a prescription for that, too. I’m just trying to lighten things up. This is too painful to watch. Look, both of you, I’m not saying this isn’t a serious situation. Shane, what with everything Tammy’s been through, you can’t expect her to just shrug this off. Trust is easily broken and more easily bruised. But, Tammy … I realize I’ve only known Shane a short while, but despite what you might think of me, I’m a good judge of character. I can tell you this man is just an oversized pussycat. More importantly, he deeply, genuinely cares about you … all of you. As for the incident, I’ve watched the footage several times, and it’s pretty obvious to me that it was an accident. I’m ninety percent certain Shane will never get convicted … even if he is, I’m equally certain he won’t go to prison.”
Shane feels the floor lurch beneath him, as if the van is suddenly moving. Until this moment, he hasn’t seriously entertained the possibility that he might go to prison.
“You don’t really think I’ll actually do any time, do you?” he asks weakly.
“No … as long as you don’t get a jury of Blackhawks fans. But what do I know? I’m a doctor, not a lawyer.”
Yolanda has not said a word since entering the mobile clinic. Now she reaches into her blouse and pulls out her Santa Muerte necklace. She kisses the grinning skull on its mouth, then hangs the medallion around Shane’s neck. “Here. I think you may need this more than I do.”
At that moment, the grinding wheel of television journalism comes full circle. “And now, our top story,” the anchorwoman announces from the screen above them. A highly unflattering photo of Shane appears on screen, complete with black eye and missing teeth. “Former Columbus Blue Jackets player Shane Bronkovsky has been charged with manslaughter in the death of Chicago Blackhawks star Kenny Linton during a hockey game at United Center earlier this month. We warn viewers that they may find some of the footage they are about to see disturbing. We go now to our crime specialist, Bill Maloney, reporting live from Chicago.”
Shane is almost relieved that Tammy will see the incident first-hand and be able to judge for herself. The fatal accident is shown from multiple camera angles, then the report cuts to the press conference held less than an hour earlier where the charges were formally announced.
A reporter asks from off camera whether the charges were sparked by the episode of CelebTV that aired earlier this evening, and the DA looks displeased. “Absolutely not,” he asserts, then hastily leaves the podium.
Despite the prosecutor’s assertion, the news report nonetheless cites the CelebTV episode as if it was the groundbreaking piece of investigative journalism that cracked the case, even rebroadcasting some of the more salacious footage as if it was fact. Shane’s feelings quickly disintegrate into horror that Tammy is seeing it all. The reporter paints Shane as a known substance abuser and violent brawler, though he is experienced enough to tack the work alleged onto every accusation.
The coup de grace is the sound bite from Brandi, Shane’s ex-girlfriend, accusing him of abuse. Not a single word of Shane’s side of the story appears. The report concludes by saying that police in Columbus, Ohio, are investigating whether additional charges of domestic assault should be filed.
If Shane didn’t know the truth, he would figure himself for a monster after that heavy-handed coverage.
Tammy, having no such inner knowledge, has clearly bought into the TV version. “I trusted you!” she exclaims.
“Tammy, I swear I’m not who they’re making me out to be.”
“And what about your wife? Is she lying, too?”
“That wasn’t my wife, that’s the woman I was sharing a condo with in Columbus. And, yeah, as a matter of fact, she’s lying through her teeth and probably getting paid to do it. I swear to God, Tammy, I never laid a hand on her … at least not like that.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s just, you know, she liked it rough … during sex, I mean.”
“‘She was asking for it.’ ‘She liked it rough.’ That’s what men always say. It’s never their fault. No, sir, I can’t believe you.” She points at the screen, which has mercifully gone on to cover the latest legislative dysfunction in Washington. “It was on the news!”
“Just because it’s on TV doesn’t make it true.”
“Well, just because you say it, that sure as shootin’ don’t make it true.” She lowers her voice, and a ridge of tension runs along her jaw. “If I can trouble you for the keys, Yolanda and I are going home now.”
“Tammy, please … I love you.” Shane’s words are desperate. He doesn’t even know if they’re true.
“No, don’t you dare! Don’t start with ‘I love you’ or ‘I swear I’ll change.’ I’ve heard it all before and it don’t cut custard with me. Now, are you gonna give me the keys or ain’t ya?”
Shane fishes through his pocket for the keys and hands them over. Tammy makes no move to take them, as if she is reluctant to even come close to Shane. It is Yolanda who leans over to take them from Shane’s hand. There is no anger in her brown eyes, just a vague sort of world-weary sadness.
“How do you expect me to get home?” Shane asks.
“I don’t care. But even if you crawl, get one thing straight: it ain’t your home and never will be. I expect you to clear out tomorrow.”
Tammy exits, and Yolanda climbs off the stool to go with her. At the door, the Chicana turns and opens her mouth to say something to Shan
e, but ultimately just sighs and shakes her head. “Buenas noches, Frank,” she says to Doc Sanchez instead.
“Hasta pronto, Yolanda.”
For a few minutes, neither man says anything. Shane fights back tears. Doc Sanchez eventually gets up to turn off the television, then he starts rummaging through a cupboard. He emerges with a half-full bottle of tequila, which he hands to Shane.
“As your doctor, I should warn you that alcohol is a depressant. As your friend, I advise you to take a few big slugs of this, and go ahead and cry.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Doc Sanchez offers to drive him to the ranch the next morning, but Shane chooses to walk instead. It is blossoming into a beautiful spring day, and he has a hornet’s nest of buzzing thoughts to sort through.
The two men stand outside the mobile clinic, heads down, each awkwardly searching for words. Finally, Shane looks up and says quietly, “Look, Doc, do you mind if I keep my options open on that coaching job for a couple more days? I’m, you know … still figuring stuff out.”
Sanchez shrugs. “What’s a few more days? But a word of advice, amigo, whatever you decide, take control of your life. Don’t let other people shape your destiny.”
“Thanks, Doc … for everything.” Sanchez looks at the hand being offered and wraps Shane in a hug instead. After a while, Shane reluctantly unwraps himself from the comforting contact. “Hasta luego, Doc,” he says and turns toward the highway.
“Hang tough, Shane,” the doctor calls after him.
When Shane turns off the main highway onto the county road that leads to the ranch, his thoughts and resolve are no closer to crystallizing. The sun gains some altitude, and with it the day heats up. He is reminded of his first day here, just after he crashed his Ducati. For some reason, he thinks of the gangly, oddly attired teenager who robbed him not far from where Shane is walking at the moment.
Once he got his stuff back, Shane put the incident out of his mind. For the first time — perhaps due to a newly acquired empathy for fugitives — Shane gives the boy’s fate some deeper thought. He remembers the deputy’s belief that the youngster had been run off by the polygamous elders of the renegade Mormon congregation, Holy Waters, who didn’t want competition for the young girls. Shane recollects how he screamed in rage after the boy robbed him, and the threats of bodily harm he yelled at the fleeing youth. Now he feels profoundly sorry for the teenager. “Poor little fish out of Waters,” he comments aloud, shaking his head sadly. If Enrique, that twisted son of Don Aléjandro’s, had caught up with the fugitive, homelessness and dispossession would have been the least of the boy’s problems.