Hell's Bottom, Colorado

by Laura Pritchett

  “You had a wife? You had lockers?”

  “Well, I had a wife, and we each had a locker in the dormitory.”

  “What happened to your wife? Where is she?”

  He waves his arm at me, showing that no more questions are allowed, and then goes right on. “I had a locker, and this gang of mean guys kept breaking in and stealing that photo of my wife. When I’d get a package or some cigarettes, I’d have to pay them to get my own picture back. So I’d give them my cigarettes and a chocolate bar, get my photo, and next week, they’d steal it again.”

  “Why didn’t you hide the picture? Or carry it around with you?”

  “Because I had a plan.” He stops to scratch his jaw and then glances around the yard and leans real close to me. “This is confidential, by the way.”

  I give him the thumbs-up. But I’m thinking, what a moron. His story probably isn’t worth repeating anyway.

  “I said to those fellows, I said, ‘You better cut it out, I’m telling you, or something bad is coming your way.’ I wanted to give them fair warning, see. But they didn’t pay no attention.”

  Suddenly a doubtful look crosses his face. “Naw, I guess I shouldn’t be telling you this story. For one, you’re too young. And for two, you’ll tell your grandparents, and I don’t want them thinking bad about me. I like it here. And you have to understand, it was in a certain situation . . .”

  He makes me plead a little and promise silence, and he keeps postponing telling me, and here I am begging to hear a story that I never wanted to hear anyway. Finally, he starts up again. “I got the mercury from the inside of a thermostat that was on the wall in the gym. You know mercury? That’s a chemical that—”

  “I know what mercury is,” I say.

  “Well, I sweated open a pack of cigarettes, and put the mercury on them. Then I got a candy bar that my wife had sent me. Which was a Milky Way, which is what I asked for, which she thought was strange, because I don’t like Milky Ways. But they got that puffy stuff in the middle, right?”

  “Right,” I say when he pauses. “I know about Milky Ways.”

  “I bit into it so that the foamy chocolate stuff was showing, and I put the powder from a fluorescent light into the candy bar. You just break a light, see, and you scrape the powder out of it. Then I folded the wrapper down and left that candy bar in my locker. I washed my hands clean. Like that guy in the Bible. Pontius Pilate. I didn’t make the decision, I just provided the opportunity. Because it was in my locker. And if they took it upon themselves to steal it and eat it, then they got what they deserved. I figure God can’t get mad at me for just sticking mercury on some cigarettes. I had no malice. I wasn’t offering them a smoke or a candy bar. They took it. They got themselves in trouble.”

  “Well, what happened?”

  “They broke into my locker. They stole my photo, and they stole the cigarettes and the candy bar, even though it was half-eaten, which goes to show their state of mind.”

  “And?”

  “And they all got sent to the hospital. The ones who smoked the cigarettes lost their teeth and hair and fingertips. The one who ate the candy bar had to have a goat stomach put in. That’s what the doctors did, believe it or not, put in a goat stomach.”

  “You nearly killed them!”

  He just shrugs at this and gives me an innocent look. “A week later, the warden calls me in. He says, ‘If they would’ve died, Slade, I would file murder charges against you.’ But they didn’t die, they just got transferred away. Which is what he wanted, because they were mean. But, after all, I hadn’t done anything except leave a candy bar in my locker. I’d done that warden a service, and he knew it, too. I started getting a break.”

  Ben walks out of the house right then with a glass of lemonade for me and two beers for Slade and him, which is a relief, because I don’t know what to say to Slade about this story of his. When Ben puts the drinks down, I slug him in the arm, and he pretends to box me back.

  “I was just telling Slade here,” I say to him, dodging his fists, “how much you like ‘Delta Dawn.’” I roll my eyes and slug him in the belly, and Ben laughs and says something about me not knowing what good music is, and he starts getting serious about this fake boxing, tapping me with his fast hands, just a faint tap with his fingers instead of a full-force hit, showing me I’m not a good blocker, not very fast, and he’s so good it makes me laugh. Slade laughs too, and then bursts into a whistle of that song from Rocky. After a while Ben eases up on me and lets me punch him in the arm, so I get the last hit in, and then we just sit around the picnic table. The sun’s setting over the Rocky Mountains, and there’s a meadowlark singing, and it’s getting cool and quiet. Slade starts whistling softly, some tune that’s soft and low, something I’ve never heard before.

  We stay like that for a long time until Slade laughs. He nods at the horses, who are trotting through an open gate into the lawn, heading right for the garden and apple tree. This is no surprise, since it happens every day. Stoney has learned to open the latch with his nose, and no one has gotten around to putting a better latch on the gate yet. I don’t think anyone will, either, since it seems to be some kind of ritual, this letting the horses get out and then chasing them back in.

  We all get up and start walking toward the horses, and Slade starts whistling “Desperado.” When we split up to circle them, I stay close to Slade, because I’ve got a sneaking suspicion, just from instinct, and I need to know the answer.

  “So this . . . mercury thing,” I say. “All that happened when you were in the county jail for a drug bust?”

  “Oh, no,” he says. “That was when I was in prison in Texas.”

  A-ha, I’m thinking. There you have it. I’ve got an instinct that other people don’t. Renny and Ben don’t know the half of it. This guy is crazy. I look at him waving his arms at the colt, and I say, “What were you in for?”

  “Sinking boats. See, you steal a boat that’s in the harbor and take it to a real private spot that’s not too deep and you sink it. You recover it later, after the whole thing’s blown over, and the original owner has gotten his insurance money. Which is good for him, I figure, because he gets a new boat. I get a boat. And the only one who gets screwed is the insurance company, and they deserve it.”

  “Yeah, right. What’d they do to you?”

  “They dump sick people off their medical insurance, for one. They cheat all their paying customers. They’re the biggest criminals around. So I don’t mind playing a little Robin Hood.”

  I snort, because that’s rationalization for you. I myself am an expert at it, so I can see it when it’s coming. I scratch Stoney on the neck and then grab his mane to guide him through the gate, and Slade’s got the colt around the neck, but he’s having a harder time of it, since that colt doesn’t quite have the procedure down.

  “I got thrown in prison,” Slade says, after the colt calms down. “And right away, this guy starts giving me a hard time and I took exception and we had it out. Then they put me in confinement because they thought I was a violent person. They tell you, if you don’t fight, then good, but if you don’t fight, you die, so what good is being good? Then they send me to the worst prison in Texas because I’m a Yankee, because I don’t have a stupid Texas drawl and ask for”—and here he raises his voice and says in a Texas accent—“some corn frittaaaas an’friiiiied chicken.” He smiles and opens his crazy eyes wide. “They sent me to Bloody Ham, the worst goddamn prison in the world.” Then he goes and changes the subject on me. “Did I ever tell you that I’m carrying the torch for Celine Dion? That Gloria Estefan, too. My God, they have voices. There’s something about music that reminds me of all the good.”

  He starts humming and shaking his head as he hums, and I know he’s hearing the whole song in his head, every piano key and tilt of the voice, because that’s just how I hear songs too. Even though my pitiful self can only produce a wavery off-tune hum, I still got the thing going perfect in my head. Usually, my brain’s
got everything about right, and I can trust whatever’s going on up there. But this time, I don’t know. This guy is more wily than I originally thought, and something about him makes me shiver. But he’s humming away with his eyes closed and he looks like he’s quiet inside, quiet and peaceful.

  “Leanne.” Slade opens his eyes and stares at me over the colt’s back. “You know, there’s only one excuse for killing a person. If they’re trying to harm you or someone you love. I wouldn’t ever do anything to hurt you or your family.”

  I’m a little embarrassed at that, because it’s too close to the truth, and I hate for someone to see through me. “Give me a break,” I say. “Did Renny mention something? Because she thinks I’m a little scared of you, but I’m not.”

  “She didn’t say anything. I can just see it.”

  “No way, Slade. You don’t scare me.”

  “There I was in the county jail,” he says, “after I thought I had my life turned around. And I really had, except for an occasional smoke of dope. There I was back again, and I was feeling real bad, and I thought the devil had me by the butt and was dragging me down again. I said, ‘Boy, do I need an angel of mercy.’ Just then, your grandmother walked in. Renny visited me, because, as you know, we were friends when we were kids. She offered to let me come and stay, and I’m telling you, it’s more than anyone else would have done, and I won’t ever forget that.”

  We’ve got the horses at the gate and lead them through. They shake their heads, grumpy to be back, but I don’t see what they’re complaining about, since they’ve got a huge pasture full of green, and everyone says these horses are the most spoiled animals around. We lean against the fence and wait for Ben, who’s coming with the two bay mares.

  “My wife just didn’t want to wait while I was in prison,” Slade says all of a sudden. “I don’t blame her. She left long ago, and I haven’t had a lady friend like her since,” he says and winks. “Although I’m thinking of writing that Celine Dion. You think she’ll write me back?”

  He’s asking it so serious, like maybe it’s even a real question, like maybe he even has a chance, that I have to laugh. “No. She’s not going to write you back.”

  “Well, then,” he says, looking all disappointed. “Even a regular old friend would be nice.” He raises his bushy eyebrows while looking right at me, and those eyes are so clear blue they make me squint. I force myself to look right at them, but I just don’t know what they’re telling me.

  I flip Stoney’s mane through my fingers and turn to watch Ben, who’s coming our way singing “Delta Dawn.” Mozart’s playing in my mind, and Slade’s whistling something new again. So I reach out to slug him in the shoulder and say, “I guess you’re just a jailbird gone songbird.” But just in case, I think, I’ll keep watching those eyes.

  DRY ROOTS

  THE WHEAT IS STARTING to turn, flashes of deep gold streaking through tall, waving green. Before we moved to Colorado, I used to think wheat grew golden yellow, like those photos you see in calendars. I suspect most city folk think that. They don’t realize that wheat grows up green and living and then it dies, and that’s when it becomes useful.

  This wheat will be harvested next month. Dry weather is good now because there can be only 15 percent moisture in wheat when it’s harvested. Not every girl knows that. But I’m learning everything because this time, Mom says, we’re staying.

  Billy’s not looking at the wheat, though. He’s staring straight ahead, arm hanging on the steering wheel, trying to look cool. His face is still red, but the slap mark doesn’t show white anymore; it’s just disappeared into the rest of his cheek. There’s a wet line running down his face, but it looks like it’s drying fast. He’s driving slower now and so it’s just like he says—if you wait, things will always get better.

  And this is true, because Billy says in a happy voice, “Well. He sure scared us this time, didn’t he? ”

  “Yeah.” My voice sounds too quiet, so I say it again, louder. “Yeah! He sure did.”

  “Ray’s just having a bad day.” Billy nods, agreeing with himself.

  But then a new tear starts and I know he doesn’t want me looking at him, so I stare at the old .22 rifle that’s resting in the seat between us. Billy was trying to teach me how to shoot it last week. I didn’t get very close to any prairie dogs, but we laughed hard then and that makes me smile. We’re on County Road 14L and up ahead is Baxter’s windmill and water tank and cows. The wind is rushing in through the windows and we’re almost to our land, a quarter-section, 160 acres.

  Sometimes I think if they lose this land I might die. I don’t even take the quarters and dimes off the dryer anymore because maybe they’ll need them to help with the payments. I just let the money sit because I want to move up to this land and build a house, just like they say we will. I want to live on this prairie that stretches and stretches, just like how my heart feels when I think of it, expanding so far into nowhere that nothing can stop it, not even the soft gray mountains I see in the distance.

  Billy parks the truck, and there it is, our land. Spreading before us, pale and bumpy, rolling and curving its way to the horizon. Someday our house will break up the view, someday our house will be in the middle of our trees—a windbreak of Rocky Mountain juniper. They’re still only about two feet tall, and they grow slow, but they’re the best drought-resistant trees and that’s what you need in a place like this. One hundred in each row; four rows making up a windbreak. It took forever to plant them all. We spent most of last summer doing it—marking off rows, digging holes, putting in those pellets that hold moisture, and planting each little tree. And then we hauled water out here every weekend to help get them started. Each time I poured water around their roots, I’d think that they were smiling and lifting up their little needles to hug me. A 60 percent survival rate is a good one, and Ray says we shouldn’t hope for more. But they’re all looking good right now, if you ask me, and I just can’t wait. They’re going to surround us someday. Surround and protect us.

  I jump out of the truck, walk over to the closest tree, and bend down and feel the needles. The new growth is soft and green against the dark, brittle needles, so young and alive next to all this sagebrush and yucca and prickly pear cactus. I hear a faraway meadowlark and the wind, and I stand up and stretch and stare at the pale land and turquoise sky.

  From the truck Billy calls, “Hey Jess, what’s that?” My eyes follow the direction of his arm. There in the far distance, all by itself, is a rust-colored animal. It could be a cow, except it’s standing all wrong. Its shoulders are high, and its butt is down low.

  “Looks like a baby buffalo,” I call back.

  Billy climbs out with the rifle. “Let’s go check it out,” he says and takes off running.

  I have to move fast to keep up, running way past our trees and scrambling through the barbed-wire fence that separates our land from old man Baxter’s. He’d be mad if he knew we were on his land because he’s an ornery old grump, liable, I hear, to shoot just about anyone. That thing up ahead must be one of his calves. I can see now that it’s reddish brown with a white face, like the Hereford cows grazing out here, but the shape is all wrong.

  “Billy!” I yell. “I know what it is!”

  He stops running and looks back at me.

  “It’s one of them cows that’s been mutilated by a UFO!”

  I see his eyes grow big for an instant, but then he says, “Nah. You read too many of them space books. I bet it’s a calf with a leg stuck in a prairie dog hole.” He waves me forward. “Come on!”

  He’s running on ahead and I don’t want to just be standing there where a rattler might get me, so I start running again. I’m watching the ground for snakes and not looking up, and I almost run into Billy. As I stop where he has, I hear the bawling of a calf.

  I look up and step behind Billy because I want to hide behind him. He’s shaking his head and whispering “Oh, Jesus, oh damn” over and over.

  The calf has no legs bel
ow the back knees. No little hooves, no thin ankle. In front it looks like a regular calf, long eyelashes, dirty white face, soft pink nose. But the spine curves down because the back legs aren’t the right height, and all it has is two round stumps for back legs, covered in a dark dried blood.

  The calf bawls again and then takes a step away from us with the two front legs, limping and dragging the bloody hind legs behind.

  “Holy oh my God,” Billy whispers.

  I back up and try to pull him with me. “Billy?”

  He jerks his arm free from mine. “They’re both cut off. I don’t know why. Maybe the back legs froze when it was born this winter and Baxter chopped them off at the knee.”

  “Nobody’d do that, Billy.”

  “Yes, he would.”

  “No.”

  “I’ve heard of it. I bet Baxter’s just hoping this calf lives awhile and gains some weight. Then he’ll make some money when he sells it for butcher. Look, you can tell the wounds are old. There’s some hide grown over the stumps. But the hide keeps ripping away because it’s gotta walk on its knees. I bet it’s three months old.” Billy bends down and looks beneath her. “It’s a little heifer.”

  “A girl?” Even though I don’t want to, I’m crying pretty hard. “But why’d he do that, Billy? Why wouldn’t he keep her up at his ranch and feed her there?”

  “’Cause he’s a mean son of a bitch.”

  “I don’t believe you. He wouldn’t leave this calf out here. Not if he knew.”

  Billy feels sorry for me, I know, because he reaches his hand out and touches my shoulder. “She’s tagged,” he says.

  Sure enough, the calf has a yellow tag hanging from her ear. X16. She turns her little white head as if to show it to me, as if to say, “See, I’m numbered, and who did this to me? Why do I hurt so much?”

  I want to hold her. To tell her I don’t understand, either. But if I move toward her, she’ll have to take another painful, bloody step away. I’m the thing she’s afraid of.