Hold of the Bone

by Baxter Clare Trautman

  She lowers her hand, and again Frank hides her arm in her lap.

  “It looks like bite wounds, yes?”

  “Yeah.”

  Sal nods. “I get the image of a reddish dog, chunky like a pit bull, on a chain. And lots of blood.”

  Frank unconsciously cradles the arm mauled by a roan pit bull. The dog had crawled through a gap in a chain-link fence and though tied to a tree had enough slack to lunge for Frank’s arm. It hadn’t let go until her cops beat it off with a two-by-four. She doesn’t know if it’s the vivid memory or Sal’s accuracy that makes her queasy. She grasps at the rationalization that Sal knows pit bulls are common in ghettos, and with so many scars of course she was traumatized. That the dog was red is just a lucky guess. “Enough about my arm. How’s the rest of me?”

  Sal stands and tells Frank to. She cups a hand in front of Frank’s torso. “There’s a lot of heat here. Around your liver. Do you have hepatitis?”

  “Nope.”

  Sal lowers her hand a couple of inches. Frank feels its heat through her clothes. “Do you drink?”

  “Everyone drinks.”

  “Alcohol,” Sal says patiently. “Do you drink a lot of alcohol?”

  Frank stares into the brilliant eyes. “Used to.”

  Sal nods. “It feels like you did a lot of damage to your liver, but that it’s healing. Drink water, lots of clean water, probably for the rest of your life. And if you’re serious about taking care of yourself instead of just playing with me, I can give you some dandelion to help.” She continues her scan, explaining, “This is a very physical energy.”

  “As opposed to?”

  “As opposed to a spiritual wound, like your arm. Those send out the most energy. I could feel your arm across the table. Physical wounds send out the least. I don’t usually feel them until I’m about this close.” She repositions her hand about a foot from Frank’s waist. “Emotional wounds—” she raises her hand to Frank’s chest and steps back “—are about this close. Do you have a cold, or bronchitis?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever had pneumonia?”

  “No.”

  “It feels like there’s liquid here.”

  Her hand is a good two feet away, yet crazily, Frank still feels it.

  Sal frowns. “Your lungs are congested.”

  “I’m fine,” Frank assures. “Just passed my annual physical with flying colors.”

  Sal shakes her head. “This is an emotional wound. Not something a physician would pick up. It feels like blood here.”

  Frank flashes on her first lover. Maggie took a shotgun blast to the chest during a liquor store robbery and bled to death on a pile of candy bars. Frank grips the back of the chair.

  “I need to talk to you about your father.”

  “It’s been a long morning. My dogs are penned. You know where I’ll be.”

  Frank is about to argue. She could threaten Sal with hampering an investigation, obstruction of justice, any of half a dozen charges, yet hears herself say, “I’ll wait. What do I owe you?”

  Sal shrugs. “I don’t have a set fee. My patients pay however they can.”

  Frank drops two twenties on the table.

  Tucking the bills into her jeans, Sal asks, “Did any of what I said make sense?”

  Again their wills lock, but this time Frank caves. She nods. “I’ll be in my car.”

  She steps through the swinging curtain into the normalcy of sun and sky and blood-red roses. The fountain gurgles. A jay swoops to it from a pepper tree and hops along the rim, a cool eye cocked to Frank. Overhead, in the brilliant blue, a vulture circles. Frank stalks through the dimly lit store, signaling to the last woman on the bench that she is through.

  Chapter 17

  The bench is in shade and all the women gone by the time Sal’s pickup rumbles from behind the store. Frank rights her seatback and follows. The Honda drops onto the bumpy dirt road, and Frank wonders if her old car will make it all the way.

  When Sal stops to open the first gate, she saunters back to Frank. She says, “You’re never going to make it in that.”

  “Can I hitch a ride?”

  Sal studies Frank blankly. “Park over there.”

  She points to a turnout on the side of the road. Frank locks up, hoping the car won’t be vandalized by the time she gets back. She hops in, automatically reaching for the seat belt.

  “They’re busted,” Sal says, shifting into second. Frank sees she doesn’t wear one, either.

  “I’m a cop. I could arrest you for that,” she jokes.

  Sal ignores her.

  Frank cranks the window down and sticks her elbow out into the rising dust, happy to be on the move. She tries to concentrate on the cattle that graze the stubbled range and ruminate in clumps under the oaks, but inevitably her gaze is drawn to the mountains. She sees the trail again, the dusty brush on either side. There is silence but for the steady fall of hooves and monotonous drone of a fly. She rocks to a horse’s drowsy rhythm.

  Frank is thrown against the dashboard. Sal leans across her, pointing out the window. “Bears.”

  Frank sees a shambling hump on the far side of the fields, followed by two smaller humps. The women crane their necks to watch the animals lope across the meadow.

  “Do you see a lot of them?”

  “Not often. Plenty of signs, though. They prefer the high country, but it’s not unusual for them to come down this time of year.”

  “What do they eat?” Frank asks nervously.

  “Anything they can. Berries, insects, leaves. Sometimes they’ll kill a calf or older cow.”

  “People?”

  This elicits the first smile Frank has seen on Sal. “Only if you piss them off.” The cubs dip out of sight and she puts the truck in drive.

  Frank grins. “That was great. I’ve never seen a bear.”

  “Not even in captivity?”

  Frank thinks back to an outing at the Bronx Zoo. There’s a picture in her head of her father holding her hand and her mother sitting on a bench. He is pointing to a giraffe munching leaves. She feels like he is trying to get her to feed the giraffe and she wants no part of it. “Nope. I don’t think so.”

  Silence settles in the truck like the dust. They come to the next gate, and Sal explains that the first gate is kept locked to keep people out. The rest are for cattle and unlocked, so when she stops Frank hops out to open and close them. Each time she is struck by the immensity of the silence.

  As they near the ranch, the mountains rise taller. Pointing at a toothy ridge, Frank asks, “You ever been up there?”

  Sal glances where Frank points. “Sure.”

  “What’s it like?”

  The ranch materializes over the top of the hill. Sal drives to the corral and parks. “Come on.” She jumps out. “I’ll show you.”

  Frank has opened her door, but when she sees two horses watching from the corral, she says, “Oh, no.”

  Sal disappears into the black hole of the barn and Frank wonders at her inordinate involvement with women fond of horses; Gail had adored the beasts, and here she is, interviewing a woman who lives on a working cattle ranch. She shakes her head as Sal emerges from the barn with two halters.

  “I don’t do horses.”

  “You do if you want to talk to me.”

  Frank checks a curse. It’s one thing talking to Sal on her own turf, quite another doing it from the back of a half-ton quadruped. She thinks again about pulling rank, yet eases from the cab and slips into the corral. The horses turn and stare as one.

  “I don’t know how to ride,” she says, hating the whine in her voice.

  “Don’t worry. Anyone can ride Buttons.”

  Sal holds out a halter. Frank starts as if she’s been offered a rattlesnake. Sal shakes it. The trail rides at Griffith’s Park, purely at Gail’s insistence, are a fond memory compared to what Frank is afraid Sal has in mind.

  “Shit.”

  Frank grabs the halter. The horses
prick their ears and study Sal’s approach.

  “Come here, Dune,” she says sweetly.

  “Doom?”

  “Dune,” Sal corrects. “That’s a good boy.”

  The horse nickers as she drapes a rope around its neck, slides the halter on, and buckles it in one smooth motion. Then she turns to Buttons and puts a rope around the mare’s neck.

  “Your turn.”

  “Uh-uh.” Frank tries to give the halter back, but Sal refuses it.

  “Come on. I’ll help you.” Scratching under Buttons’ mane, Sal patiently, insistently coaches Frank through the task of grooming and saddling her ride.

  “The bridles are tricky,” Sal says. “I’ll do them, but watch.”

  Sweating, trembling a little, Frank is relieved to step away from the horses. But the relief is short-lived. Sal deftly slips the bit into Buttons’ mouth and hands Frank the reins.

  “Up you go.”

  “When do I get to ask some questions?”

  “As soon as you get on.”

  Frank watches the mare bob her head. “Why’s she doing that?”

  “She’s just adjusting herself to the reins. Don’t worry. Just trust her.”

  Frank scowls. She’s been hearing that a lot lately.

  “Do you need help?”

  “No,” Frank snaps.

  Inserting a sneakered foot into the stirrup, she drags herself up into the saddle. It’s an ugly mount, but she’s on. Then Sal lights onto Dune as effortlessly as a butterfly onto a flower. She wheels the horse around and bends to the gate, riding it open. Buttons follows without prompting and Sal orders, “Make her stop.”

  Frank pulls the reins. Buttons takes a step or two forward, but Frank pulls again. The horse stops. She whinnies for Dune and he answers. Frank eases her grip, expecting Buttons to follow sedately, but the old horse takes off at a trot. Frank has to grab the pommel to keep from falling. She remembers Gail telling her to stand in the stirrups to get her balance. Just as she does, Buttons catches up to Dune. The horse jerks to a stop and Frank almost flies over her head.

  Sal graciously allows, “She’s not the smoothest ride.”

  “She just tried to throw me.”

  “Buttons hasn’t thrown anyone in twenty years. Probably couldn’t even if she wanted to. If it’s any comfort, all my grandchildren learned to ride on Buttons.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Three.”

  Frank repeats what Gomez told her, that Sal had a daughter down south.

  “That’s right. Cassie’s in LA.”

  “You named her after your sister?”

  Sal nods.

  Frank adjusts to Buttons’ wide-bodied stride. The rhythm is awkward but not uncomfortable. “Where are we going?”

  “Just to the cabin.”

  “Why didn’t we take the quad?”

  “Pete’s got it.”

  A cool wind brushes past and Frank glances at the sky. “Jesus. Where’d that come from?” She’s been so busy staying in the saddle she hadn’t noticed the clouds surging from the north.

  “It’s early for rain, but I saw a couple tarantulas last week.”

  “Tarantulas?” Frank involuntarily scans the ground. “What have they got to do with rain?”

  “It usually rains a couple weeks after you see the first tarantulas of the year.”

  “Great.”

  Frank looks up from the trail long enough to admire Sal’s loose-boned fit in the saddle, and when Buttons snorts and bobs her head, Sal leans easily to tug at her forelock, teasing, “Old barn-sour girl.”

  Buttons gives a louder snort and Dune answers. The horses quicken their pace toward the line of trees guarding the creek. Buttons starts to trot, but Frank reins her to a walk, more leery of the trees than getting thrown. The scabrous sycamores bend and sway, dancing to the most ancient of songs. The wind, the clouds and trees, the grasses bowing at the storm’s approach, all seem uncannily alive, and Frank’s breath halts between wonder and fear.

  Buttons whinnies, tamps a hoof and pulls against her rein. Frank finds Sal twisted in the saddle, watching her. For a second, she is unsure who is interviewing whom. She loosens her grip on the reins and squeezes Buttons with her knees. The mare trots to catch up, slowing only after her nose is in Dune’s tail. The horses cross single file over the dark-running creek, hoof steps muted under the keening wind. Frank follows Sal into the corral, where she slides gracefully to the ground, but Frank stays mounted.

  “You can get off now.”

  “I know.” Frank holds out the reins. “Can you hold her?”

  Sal takes the offered straps, but still Frank sits. She doesn’t trust her legs to hold her once she falls. A cold drop of rain anoints her face, then another. She pulls her feet from the stirrups and swings a leg over Buttons’ rump. The saddle grabs her shirt on the way down and she lands as awkwardly as she feared she would. She steadies herself against the horse, grateful for Buttons’ unflinching patience. Rain splats her arms and hair, the exposed skin where her shirt rode up.

  She tugs her shirt down, takes back the reins, and copying Sal, pulls the saddle off. But she doesn’t grab the pad beneath and it falls at Buttons’ feet. The mare jumps and Frank does too. Heart racing, she grabs the pad as the rain begins in earnest. The horses move willingly into the barn, where Sal hands her a curry comb. Water pours from the roof. It splats loudly on the ground as if shocked it’s become mud. The wind shrieks at cracks in the barn. Speech is impossible without shouting, so the women work quietly. When the horses gleam, Sal climbs to the loft and throws down flakes of hay. Frank looks around, making note of a shotgun hanging in a case by the door.

  “Well?” Sal shouts, eyeing the watery curtain. “Ready?”

  Clutching her plastic bags, Sal dashes from the barn with Frank only a step behind. They sprint to the cabin and Sal throws the door open. “I’ll be right back,” she says, dropping the bags.

  Frank watches her run to a pen and free the dogs. They race to the cabin with much jumping, barking and tail wagging. Sal bursts in and the dogs shake water everywhere. Without a trace of self-consciousness, Sal peels off her shirt and tosses it in the sink. Disappearing through the only other door in the room, she calls, “I’ll get you some clothes.”

  Frank starts to protest but sees she is dripping all over the floor. Bone wags his stump and gives her hand a lick. She wipes the kiss off on her leg but cautiously pats his head.

  “Good boy. You wouldn’t bite old Frank, would you?”

  The stump wiggles in reply. Cicero noses between them, begging his share of attention. Frank scratches his flank like Gomez did. That appeases him and she looks around. The cabin is primitive, comprised of a rough kitchen along one wall and a massive stone hearth catty-corner. Where there aren’t windows, the walls with the doors are crammed floor to ceiling with books.

  Sal comes through the inner door in dry jeans and a sweater. She hands Frank a mismatched sweat suit. “You’re a little bigger than I am, but they should fit.”

  “Do you have a bathroom?”

  “Through the door, to the right.”

  Frank steps over a tall threshold into a skinny hall facing two doors. One is open, supplying a feeble gray light to the hall. She steps into the bathroom, feeling for a switch. Her head grazes a chain. She yanks and a bulb comes on. The bathroom is rough, clearly added after the rest of the cabin was built, but Frank is relieved to see a toilet, and surprisingly enough, a deep, claw-footed tub. She drapes her wet clothes on the porcelain edge and takes advantage of the john, trying to imagine the chore it must have been getting the tub to the cabin. She squeezes into the sweats. The legs come to her shins and the top is snug. She returns to Sal, who feeds sticks into a growing fire.

  “Are you hungry?” Sal asks without turning

  “I am, actually. I’m famished.”

  “Let’s see what the ladies gave us.” Sal swipes her hands against her legs and peers into the plastic bags on the t
able. “Tortillas. Corn and flour.” Pulling out ziplock bags, she opens them and sniffs. “Ah. Marta’s menudo. Oh, and look at this.” She unwraps a foil bundle. “Chiles rellenos.”

  Sal puts the food on the stove and adds an old-fashioned percolator. Frank’s chill recedes before the fire. Rain slashes the windows. The scent of chili and warm oil wafts from the stove and Frank’s stomach responds loudly. She studies books packed into shelves. They appear to be mostly nonfiction organized by subject. There are thousands of titles, but the subjects seem limited to hard science, philosophy and religion. The light is poor and Frank squints. A whole shelf is devoted to tarot books.

  “Could you throw another log on?”

  “Huh?” Frank jumps. “Oh. Sure.”

  She places a log in the fire and stands at the head-high mantle. It is bare but for dusty candles, an oil lamp, and an open box of shells. She takes due note of a shotgun mounted on the chimney and the rifle above it—both oiled and gleaming. She glances at a pair of old wing chairs flanking the hearth, the matching couch with its soft, cracked leather. Library books are stacked on an end table. Frank bends to the book splayed open on top of them.

  “War and Peace. That’s some heavy reading.”

  “Hm.”

  “Any good?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  Frank shrugs. “I guess I just want to be distracted. Give me a mindless mystery any day.”

  Sal turns from the stove. “Do you solve them before you’re finished?”

  Frank grins. “Always.”

  Reminded why she is here, she asks, “How’d you get to school when you were a kid?”

  “Our father drove us to the store and we’d catch the bus from there. When we got older we drove ourselves.”

  “I bet you started driving young out here.”

  “As soon as we could see over the dashboard.”

  Sal sets steaming bowls on the table and pours coffee without asking. “Black, right?”

  “Yeah.” The coffee is good. She holds it between her hands a moment, enjoying its smell mingling with the spicy menudo.