The Last Cowboy

by Lee Gowan

  “It’s okay. You can tell me.”

  Michael swallowed, his perfect Adam’s apple bobbing beautifully. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes and began to shake. “Mom and Uncle Vern made love.” He sobbed, gasping for breath. A few seconds later he opened his eyes to see why Sam had not responded. Seeing his father’s face, he simply added, “I heard them.”

  The sprinkler hissed, turning and turning, whirling droplets into the sun, where they refracted into tiny rainbows for an instant before disappearing. Made love, Sam was thinking, Where did he get that phrase? Why did he put it that way? Michael stared at the ground.

  Sam nodded. “Yeah. I know. It’s okay. I know. Thanks for tellin’ me.”

  He gave Michael’s arm a tiny squeeze, not too hard, maybe a little too hopeless a squeeze to have bothered at all, and he struggled to his feet, feeling a bit dizzy. He closed his eyes and breathed. Breathed. Breathed.

  “Where’s your brother and your Mom?”

  “It’s nap time. Ben’s sleeping. Mom’s in the house somewhere.” Michael shrugged, still staring into that perfectly groomed lawn. “I think she’s cleaning the bathroom.”

  Sam ruffled his hair absently and headed for the house. Michael got on the swing and began pumping himself furiously into the sky.

  The house was quiet. As he walked through the empty living room, he saw everything for the first time—the skylights, the fireplace made of rocks collected from this very piece of land, the polished oak floor, the signature where the stuccoer had signed his work. There was the mark where the sander had chattered on the hardwood; they’d promised to come and fix it, but they never had. There was the spot on the carpet where the dog had thrown up. The mark would never come out. And there was the corner of the genuine Eames table that Michael had smashed into. It had taken seven stitches to close the gash above his left eye.

  JANUARY 2nd, 1971: BROKEN HEAD

  FOR A MOMENT Irene thought she was in her bedroom, and the burning in her eye and back and ribs and shins was where Erasmus Hard Sky had hit her for talking back to her mother, and then she opened the one eye she could open and saw the underside of the desk. A large glob of pink gum had been left by an earlier detainee. Or perhaps a cop. Did cops chew gum?

  The door opened, and a cop she didn’t recognize, an old man in a fancy-looking uniform, stepped into the room. He looked down at her over his considerable paunch, his hands on his hips. “Jesus,” he said, then turned and closed the door behind him.

  Yes, Jesus. She hoped the cop was on his way to fetch Him, but she doubted it, so she began to pray, murmuring the words out loud in hopes He might hear her despite all those tiny holes in the white walls.

  “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Our fathers trusted in Thee and You didst deliver them. But I am a worm, not a woman, despised by the people. You art He who took me from the womb, made me hope when I was on my mother’s breast. You were near me in my mother’s belly, and You art near me even now, even here, in the belly of the terrible beast. Be not far from me, for trouble is near, and there is no one here to help, and I am afraid. O Lord, O my beloved Jesus, I am poured out like water, and my bones are out of joint, my heart wax melted into my bowels, and, Lord, I am afraid. Be not far. Be not far. Be not far. O Lord, shelter me, thy shepherd, I shall not want, and I will walk and will not fear, and I will eat at the table of mine enemies, the oil running into my cup running over into the house of the Lord, and someday I will dwell there forever with You, Jesus, my beloved, I will dwell with Thee forever when You pull me out of the net they have laid for me. You will give me the strength to commit my spirit unto You. I will, I will, I will, I will, I do, I do, I do, I do, my Lord Jesus, for You are my one true Love. Amen.”

  And she kept praying even when the old man cop came back into the room and began calling to her, “Miss? Miss? Miss? Can you understand me, Miss?” This time he had with him the other cop from the car that had stopped them—the older one who called himself Officer Johnson, who she had thought was scary, but who, as it turned out, was not nearly as frightening as the younger one. So far.

  “Miss? Are you all right? We’d like to talk to you.”

  She did not answer, simply blinked up at them with her one good eye, and tried to tell them with her prayer that she was protected by Jesus and they should stay back. “Be not far, be not far, be not far, my Lord, for the devil is near, with his flashing eyes and his horrible white teeth.” Now the two of them knelt beside her, and she cringed back into the corner, trying to will herself away, hoping Jesus might come and take her before their fingers touched her. But He did not. They grasped her by the arms, pulled her up and sat her on a chair. She clasped herself to her legs, kissing her knees through her jeans, and kept right on praying.

  “Hallowed be Thy name. Thy Kingdom come. Thy Will be done. On Earth as it is in Heaven.”

  “Are you okay, Miss?”

  One of them, Officer Johnson, took out a tissue and dabbed it on her sore eye. “Hold that there,” he said, but she did not obey, and finally he withdrew the tissue and stood so that she could see nothing but his black boots, the same as the black boots of his young partner. A moment later even the boots were gone, and she heard them both walk out of the room and close the door and leave her safely alone.

  She would go now, she decided. She would let Jesus take her in His cool arms and dance her backwards, one step, two step, three, and dip back down into the barrel with his long dipper. She should sing. She should sing a song to fill all those tiny black holes on the white walls. Her voice wasn’t bad, Father Belanger had told her. She used to be in the choir in the front row, and Father Belanger called her—“Irene Hunter will sing for us now”—and she sang “The Old Rugged Cross” on the northern lip of the valley where the missionaries would climb up that dirt path to the wooden cross on their knees the entire way, and she sang herself through all the history of song—breathing, pounding, beating, crying, birthing, laughing, dying—into the notes there in the dark, her mother and Erasmus Hard Sky making a fine rhythm on the rusty squeaking springs of her mother’s bed until she told them, “Stop that because Jesus might hear,” and that’s when Erasmus Hard Sky stumbled over in the dark and hit her for talking back to her mother, and her mother kicked him out of the house and told him never ever to come back again and rocked Irene in her arms, stroking her hair, and told her that Jesus was going deaf these days anyway, but Irene did not believe her.

  The two cops were back in the room, and the one who had stopped them spoke: “Can you get up, Miss? We’re gonna let you go.”

  JANUARY 2nd, 1971: NEAR BROKEN HEAD

  WIND’S GETTING WORSE, if anything. Horse’s head is down, plowing into it, so I have to hunch right forward to get the benefit of its blocking any breeze.

  Boy’s still there, the cow trudging along beside us, trotting to catch up and sniff her boy where he’s keeping my hands warm in front of my saddle. Assuring herself he’s still there and still alive and even kicking so hard from time to time that I have to hold him from falling on his noggin.

  The view ahead is not nearly so interesting. Only white and more white and more white and more white and more white and, just for the sake of excitement, more white. Maybe my eyeballs are frozen. Maybe the damned horse doesn’t know where we’re going after all. Maybe we found the newborn just to give it a new place to die. And company.

  We should be close. Five minutes ago I was sure I knew exactly where we were. I did. We passed the old threshing machine, there where I parked it the last time twenty years ago, the fall before I bought the Massey-Harris combine. Parked the old McCormick-Deering there by where the trail curls. Didn’t I see it? I did. I’m sure. Unless I was hoping to see it so badly I managed to imagine it. If I did see it, we should have crawled inside and at least been out of the wind. No. Never wanted to die in a threshing machine.

  Cow’s sniffing her boy again. My boy’s still there.

  We should be there by now. Maybe w
e’re lost. Better find some kind of marker. Christ, I’ve lived here for fifty years, but my brain’s getting so fuzzy and the ground’s so white I’m not sure exactly where I am. The creek should be right over there, to the left, I think. If I can get him to head that way, I should recognize what part of the bank we’re at. But he won’t go. And I’m too cold and tired to make him. He must know where we’re going. He must smell the barn. Must have taught him something at horse school.

  The white drops away for an instant, and hallelujah!

  I see the distant shape of the chicken house hanging there, not half a mile away, across the crick. Built that chicken house myself. The throne room of my kingdom. Cock of the rocks. Foundation’s filled with stones from the field by the house. McAllister laughed at me for making such a fuss over the foundation of a chicken house, but why not make it to last? Not like there’s any shortage of stone. Hauled enough rock from the cultivated bits to build a fair-sized castle. My little share of the earth. Once, old man, all this was yours. But you gave it away. It vanished as swiftly as it does before your eyes right now, quivering there for an instant, then erased by the blowing snow, the blindness coming so fast that the boy doesn’t even notice he’s not going to die after all. He mustn’t, at least, as he stays slouched in his saddle. Unless he’s frozen stiff and can no longer react, even to the sight of warmth. Doubt it. No, he glances up at me for a second with a worried, old man’s face, the spots of frostbite showing on his cheeks. Those hollow, myopic eyes. Wondering if we’ll make it, and the house not a quarter of a mile away. Have to teach him to pay attention before his delinquent account comes due.

  The cow sure as hell knows. She bawls at the blizzard, and she’s lifted her head like she’s looking for something white to look at. Wonder if she’s seen or smelled or heard one of her sisters bawling, or if she can tell by the way the horses are picking up the pace as they balance along the edge of the draw, avoiding the deep snow, sniffing out a gentle approach to the creek. Probably all of the above. Cows may be stupid, but compare her knowledge of her surroundings with the boy’s at this particular moment, and she looks like the genius. The skills acquired from watching a stationary box don’t come in too handy out here. I’m not sure where they would come in handy. Might be good if you were a laying hen, I suppose. Though I’ve never known a laying hen to watch television. They might like the coyote, considering he always ends up under the fifty-ton weight. Only good coyote is a dead coyote. Laying hen and I can agree on that, if nothing else. Come to think of it, only argument I’ve ever had with a laying hen was over her eggs. But that about sums up their interests, so I guess I’d have to say that me and laying hens don’t tend to see eye to eye.

  The sensible approach would be to backtrack up beyond the cutbank—which must be over there in the direction of that particular whiteness—and go all the way around by the road and over the bridge and bring our bounty home by the driveway, but damned if I’m feeling warm enough to be so conservative at the moment. That’s the way a truck would have to go, and we’re lucky enough not to be in a truck. Hasn’t been the coldest winter in history, but the ice should be plenty thick. Just avoid the rapids. Cross below them at the swimming hole. Only problem will be forcing the horses out onto slippery footing. But considering the amount of snow we’ve had this winter, these green horses will probably never notice they’re walking on water.

  We go over the edge, down the few feet of bank, and follow out a drift onto the ice. I have to hold onto the calf so he doesn’t slip forwards or jostle off the side. Every time the little fella feels himself going, he tries to stand up, making our circus routine balancing act all the more difficult. He’s settled for the moment, at least. It takes more than the moment to urge the horses onto the creek after the cow, but once we’re on the ice there’s enough snow and it’s packed hard enough that they can walk without their feet slipping from under them. Figured. Just need to follow the drift of snow cover. Can see where it’s open there, over the rapids, so stay clear of that. Meanwhile, the boy’s finally noticed where we are, now that we’re right in the middle of his swimming hole. The banks cut the wind a bit, so you can see yourself think, or hear yourself arguing with the part of yourself that’s stopped thinking and turned completely numb. The cow’s coming along beside us just fine, though she looks more than a little nervous about walking on water. Oh, ye of little faith. Eat this fish and do what I tell ya. Won’t have ya hiding behind blind eyes when there’s all this white to look at. Don’t bother dying, even if you need the rest. Drink this water till you’re drunk with love and drown.

  Holy shit, we’re in the drink!

  Dearest mother of shit-kicking Christ, that’s cold! Splashes right up to my waist, and I’m holding up the reins in one hand, holding the calf with the other and standing in the stirrups so as to keep as much of me out of the wet as I can, and the horse is doing likewise, though with no stirrups for purchase, but hopefully bottom. He’s sucking in air, his one eye open too wide and looking back to ask me if this is the end of the ride. Sucks the balls right up to your tonsils. That is cold. That is damn cold. Calf’s got his head up, and I’m wrestling to keep him from flipping off like a mad fish. Where’s the boy? Don’t see him anywhere. Must not have stepped in. Watching me drown. Horse is lunging forward. Water’s only up to the calf’s nose, and we better damned well not fall off, or we’re stiffer than Satan’s three horns. Terrible chill flares the fire in my leg like gasoline on a camp stove. The horse is plowing forward, so he is touching bottom. Should be damned thick here where the boys swim in the summer, and here we are, spinning around in it like it’s a day in June. Where’s the bloody suntan lotion and the lusty señoritas? Horse bolts up on his hind legs to get his feet on the surface, but it breaks away in front of him. I’m trying to hold onto the calf and stay on myself. My whole lower body’s burning with cold. Numbness is the only thing saving me. He’s up again, breaks through again, but it’s shallower as he drags us nearer the other bank. Now even my feet are out of the water, and we’re only in up to the horse’s knees. He manages to step out onto the ice, and it carries him, and he leaps up onto the bank, where that wind cuts straight through us and freezes solid the lunch in my stomach and the blood in my heart.

  The calf’s gone. I turn and see it’s fallen on the bank, crying there, while its mother’s already sniffing and bawling her disapproval over my chaperoning abilities. There’s no need to get excited there, momma, your baby’s gonna make it. I may lose both my legs, but your baby’s gonna be just fine. May have a bit of a bloody nose to show for the long fall, but no other badges. Don’t look at me. You just dropped him nearly as far out of your hind end, and I’m not trying to make you feel guilty, am I?

  Oh, well. What’s a ride without a bit of excitement? Now we’re good as home.

  A pale shadow, the boy’s horse, sweeps past me, galloping for the barn with nothing on its back. An empty saddle is rarely a good sign.

  JUNE 29th, 2000: NEAR BROKEN HEAD

  WOOD PANELLING. The sink overflows with dishes. Pizza boxes piled beside rows of empty beer, and whiskey bottles on the lime-green linoleum counter. The smell—of the dishes and garbage that’s been left too long—is only slightly disinfected by the smell of cigarette smoke and alcohol. Perhaps there is the smell of another disinfectant as well: a row of bleached animal skulls is arranged on a shelf like knickknacks. The cowboy explained to me how he’d stripped them down to the pure white with some sort of acid. They are a powerful white indeed. Badger, deer, eagle, sparrow, gopher, cow, horse, dog. Morbid but beautiful. Certainly sculptural. They dominate the room, presiding over it all with their empty eyes. I can’t help thinking of Dad. I take photos, having been let loose to document the lair in any way I choose while the cowboy has gone to “do his ablutions.”

  I tried to get him to take me to the cliff immediately after Sam left, but he insisted that he would have to clean himself up if he was going to take me anywhere.

  When I’ve got all
the angles I need, I sit down on the worn brown couch and light a cigarette—there’s an ashtray the size of a hubcap, filled with the twisted butts of roll-your-owns, on its own metal stand beside the couch—and I listen to the hiss of the shower coming through the cardboard walls and the cowboy singing, “I want to be happy, but I won’t be happy, till I make you happy too,”—a somewhat mournful rendition, making the possibility of the happiness sound more than a little doubtful—and I wonder what it all could mean.

  Mean? It’s all meaningless. On the other hand, when we get to the cliff he’ll almost certainly find what he’s looking for, even if it’s only in his eyes. I can’t imagine Dad sitting in this room. And I can’t imagine the cowboy sitting beside the deathbed. Even if I wanted him there, I doubt he’d come. I’ll just let him take me to the place I saw in my dream. Next he’ll tell me that we have to go on horseback.

  I wonder what’ll happen to Sam. I hope he works it out with his wife. I think he was hoping I’d take him back to my father’s deathbed. What would my father want with a banker?

  I should phone Mom. Later. After the cliff. Dad will be delighted by the cowboy and the trailer and the cliff, I’m sure, even if I bring him only the photos. The image is more than enough. I’ll sit by the bed and hold his hand and show them to him. Mom will forgive me when she sees me showing him these photos. My brother will sit there, watching, without a word to say.

  It’s not so much that I need to see him one more time before he dies. I’ve seen enough. It’s that I need him to see me sitting there beside his bed.

  What if the cliff is perfect for James Aspen? What will I tell the cowboy?

  Who am I trying to kid? Of course it’ll be perfect. I should phone Lance Taves and tell him that I’m flying out tomorrow, but I might as well wait until I have the good news. Of course it will be perfect.