by Kayt C Peck
“Geeze, because she’s gay?”
“Gay and distinctly non-traditional. She’s graduated from high school, and he wants her to go to beautician school. She wants to work on her art. She’s staying on the couch at a friend’s house for a couple of days, but then she has nowhere to go.”
“She’s got talent, I’ll give you that, but I might back the step-father on some things,” Judy said.
Kathleen’s lips compressed into a thin line. “Judy, she’s like a daughter to me.”
Judy paused, her hand on the keys in the ignition switch. She thought for a moment, looking out the windshield, seeing nothing. To her credit, it was only a moment.
“If she’s family to you, she’s family to me,” Judy said, starting the car. “We’ll get her a bus ticket tomorrow.”
Tears of gratitude gave an extra sheen to Kathleen’s eyes. Judy wondered what would have happened if the girl had not been welcomed. She knew her lover, the size of her heart, and the extent of her integrity. Judy didn’t want to think what might have happened had the conversation gone differently.
Pookie, Judy thought, remembering the tiny girl with all black clothes and purple hair. Oh Lord, what’s going to happen now?
Chapter Four
Seeds of an Idea
The gate squeaked loudly as Judy opened the back of the aging stock trailer. Jackson, her bald-faced gelding, backed out confidently, Judy catching the reins draped around his neck as he stepped free. She led him away from the trailer and Brad stepped inside, opening the gate midway up the trailer to release his own bay horse. Horses and riders all moved with a choreography born of familiarity. They knew why they were there and what job needed doing. Judy breathed in the familiar smells of horse dung and dust and smiled. Days like this were as close as she expected to come to Heaven on this side of life. Sometimes she looked forward to crossing that divide and riding once again at her father’s side.
Judy tightened the front cinch on her saddle, stepped into the stirrup, and pulled herself easily into the saddle, having to lift her leg just a bit higher than normal to clear full saddlebags. They held bottles of medicine, syringes, a fencing tool, and fence staples, all things a cowhand might need while out making rounds checking the health and well-being of bovines, wind-mills, and aging barbed-wire fence. Over two miles of the north boundary fence on the Proctor ranch were built in the 1880s, part of the original XIT Ranch. She patched, mended, and nursed that fence, striving to protect an important piece of history.
She sat lightly in the saddle as she watched Brad adjust his own saddle then step aboard his bay gelding. It felt good to be out again. In the month Harold had been in the hospital, Judy and Kathleen tried to keep up the maintenance on both ranches, with occasional help from Curley, but it was a relief to have her life-long friend and consistent work companion back for a few days. Kathleen was a better hand than Judy ever would have dreamed when she first met the writer. The designer jeans and fancy blouses Kathleen wore at their first meeting had no hint of her potential to love ranching life. Kathleen took to ranching like a fish to water, something Judy better understood as she met her family, their roots deeply embedded in the centuries old Hispanic families of northern New Mexico. Kathleen had the land in her genes and her heart. She only needed the opportunity to give it life. Wranglers and chambray shirts had replaced the designer jeans and fancy blouses, except for special occasions. Whether she wore designer jeans or Wranglers didn’t matter; Kathleen’s beauty still robbed Judy of her very breath.
“Talked with your momma this morning?” Judy asked.
“Sure did.”
“How’s your dad?”
“Cranky as a cow right before calving,” Brad answered.
“Good. Glad to hear it. Means he’s getting better.”
“Doctors are surprised how fast he’s healing. That one skin graft they had to do took just fine. Dr. Thompson announced before I left that they’d do the knee surgery next week. They think he may be ready to come home in a couple of weeks.”
“That’s good news indeed.”
“Sure was nice of Kathleen to offer to go stay with Momma for a while so Julie and I could come home,” Brad said. “Nice too of your friends there to rent Momma a room. Cheaper and a lot more comfortable than a hotel.”
They rode slowly through the herd of Angus-Hereford cross stocker calves, looking for signs of anything sick or injured. Both riders had catch-ropes tied to their saddle-horns in case a steer needed to be roped, thrown, and “doctored.” These calves had settled in nicely, past the threat of the “shipping sickness” that could be so devastating when a new batch arrived. It was stress, pure and simple, Judy knew. Being gathered, packed in a truck, and dumped in a whole new place was bound to make a few sick from pure old trauma. Judy always preferred to raise their own calves from birth to feeder weight, even keeping a select batch to sell special for the individual meat-packers specializing in grass-fed beef. Still, stockers were a fact of life for a viable, modern ranch. It took less grass and land than maintaining enough cow/calf pairs to use the land efficiently but sustainably. Judy pulled her thoughts back to the conversation at hand.
“It wasn’t just being nice,” Judy responded. “We got heifers about to calve both places. Kathleen would rather sit in a hospital waiting room than be assistant obstetrician to a bunch of heifers.”
Brad scrunched up his face, thinking. “It’s kind of a toss-up to me, but I will say it sure feels good to be breathing fresh air for a while.”
There hadn’t been a sign of a sick calf or cow all day, even as they checked the last pasture. For Judy, it had just been a pleasant day in the company of an old friend, more a brother than a friend. They rode in silence for some time, each knowing without being told it was their job to lay eyes on every animal as they rode past, looking for any sign of distress.
“You know, Judy girl, I been doing a lot of thinking, sitting around that hospital,” Brad said.
“You? Thinking? Better call Debbie at the newspaper. This could be a front-page story.”
“Hardy har har,” Brad answered. “I’m being serious.”
The smile disappeared from Judy’s face. “What you thinking?”
“Remember the day of the fire?”
Judy looked at Brad in surprise. “Remember the day of the fire? How the hell could I forget?”
“I guess I mean do you remember how the firefighters from town worked together?”
“Sure do. We’re damn lucky to have them around here. Not only the fire, I couldn’t believe how well they took care of your dad and called in that helicopter.”
Brad turned in the saddle to look at his companion. “Lucky to have ‘em, but not lucky that it takes nearly an hour for them to get here.”
“They do their best, Brad. It’s just a long way from town.”
“I’m not complaining, but I been thinking.”
“Now there you go again.”
“Hush up,” Brad responded, losing patience. “Judy, did you know the chief and assistant chief are the only paid firefighters?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“I called the station a couple of times. Mom wanted an address to send a thank you card, and Chief Rome and I got to visiting. Most of the firefighters are volunteers, and there are other volunteer companies around the county.”
Judy thought a moment. “I never thought about it much, but I have noticed the fire station by the grain elevator at Conlen.”
“Judy, let’s do it here.”
The novelty of the thought made her speechless for a moment. “You mean start a fire company?”
“Yeah, why not?”
“But you’re talking about actually becoming firefighters.”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. If there’s a fire out here, we’re going to do it anyway. Why not get trained and have the equipment to do it right?”
Judy thought for several minutes, and they rode in silence. After a while, she looked at the
position of the sun and the healthy cattle they had nearly finished checking.
“Brad, if we hurry up a bit, we could get the horses unloaded and fed, and the trailer unhitched in time to get to town. I’d like to visit some with Chief Rome myself, see what he thinks.”
Brad wheeled his horse around, back the direction of the trailer. “These cattle are fine. Let’s get moving,” Brad said. “Besides, I wouldn’t mind a store-bought steak and some cobbler for dinner. We can pick up Julie at the house.”
They were both old enough to know better than to have a horse race back to the trailer. They were old enough to know better, but they did it anyway. Brad won, but then, he had a head start.
Chapter Five
Pookie Time
A bus is a bus is a bus. Upholstery colors may change, and the wear of seats occupied by a thousand travelers will vary depending on whether the bus just rolled off the assembly line or is a veteran of black-topped highways on the outside and human drama on the inside. There was always the same acrid smell of diesel and the pungent odor of urine that could never be eliminated, no matter how conscientious the cleaning, especially if one took a seat too near the claustrophobic lavatory. Pookie remembered that smell and chose a seat near the front, wondering as she did if they somehow added urine odor at the factory. The only buses she’d ever known without that smell were the sparse and Spartan yellow school buses she’d rode on field trips. No lavatory, no urine odor.
Pookie took a window seat when she first got on at the Greyhound station in Colorado Springs. Mr. Schindler, the father of her best friend - Bobby, the sweet little gay boy - had dropped something in her jacket pocket as she hugged him goodbye. It wasn’t until she was on the bus that she pulled out the $20 bill. His hug was brief and an odd combination of gruff and warm. Mrs. Schindler had held her for a long time, not even trying to hide the tears in her eyes. Bobby…oh goodness, Bobby. He had wailed so loudly as he hugged his dearest friend that even Pookie, who didn’t much give a fuck what anyone thought, was embarrassed.
Tears threatened to overfill Pookie’s eyes as she looked at the money. The Schindlers couldn’t afford a gift to their wayward guest. She had been grateful enough for the bed on their living-room couch when her stepfather had pushed her out of the house, not even giving her time to pack a bag. As a janitor at an elementary school, Mr. Schindler didn’t make much, and Mrs. Schindler only had part-time work cleaning rooms at a second-rate motel, but what they had, they invested where they knew it was important, their kids. In the case of Pookie, it was their kids and their kids’ friend. Pookie had been an honorary member of the family ever since the seventh grade, when she’d confronted bullies as they pantsed delicate little Bobby in the school courtyard beside the gym. Both Pookie and Bobby sported black eyes before the encounter was over, but tiny Pookie made sure each of the two bullies had their own blackened eyes to explain to parents. The principal suspended all four kids for three days, and Mrs. Schindler met with the principal and took them home. It was still just Pookie and her mom then – pre-stepfather, and her mom’s boss (Pookie’s future stepfather) wouldn’t let her leave work when the principal called. When Mrs. Schindler learned that Pookie would be home alone, she took the girl to their house instead. As soon as they arrived, Pookie and Bobby went to his room to listen to his new CD of the Wicked soundtrack. Pookie didn’t hear the telephone conversation between her mom and Mrs. Schindler, arranging for Pookie to stay with the Schindlers during the suspension. For three glorious days, Pookie had been a member of a real family. She’d learned to change diapers while helping Mrs. Schindler with Elaine, the ten-month-old surprise package now totally spoiled by her two older siblings and now a third, honorary sibling. She’d sat at the table participating in noisy conversations where she was amazed how everyone could talk at once and still know exactly what all said. It was Heaven. It was the happiest she had been since her father died two years earlier.
Pookie was her father’s daughter. She learned from him that the only boundaries in life were the ones you created for yourself. With his own graphic design business, Michael Thompson led a busy but flexible life. He was the driving force behind any project at his company, but he hired good people and they did much of the work so that he had time to indulge a daughter who, at a very early age, showed his same passion and talent for visual arts. She had her own corner in his studio at their house. She began with her own finger-painting easel when she was a toddler and grew to her own drawing table and computer with graphics software by the time she was ten. Her mom was something of an outsider to the adventures and visions of her husband and daughter, but she was content. Her mother’s ability to be happy with a house to keep and meals to cook would mystify Pookie later in life. As a small child, she was unconsciously comfortable with just knowing her mother was there whenever she needed her; it was almost like a perfect appliance for a comfortable home.
Adventures they did share. Pookie and her dad hiked the rugged Rockies. When Pookie wanted a pony, she got it, and her dad bought a horse; both animals boarded at a dude ranch not far from Colorado Springs. Almost every weekend of the summer, they rode, and her father joined in like another playmate as they pretended to ride from imaginary town to imaginary town, a couple of saddle-tramps looking for adventure and opportunity to right wrongs in the Old West. Joanne Thompson stayed at home or remained in the lodge at the ranch, reading her latest romance novel while father and daughter built a whole new world in their shared imagination. At home, not only did Michael encourage her art, but they also created together. Pookie sold her first painting at the age of six. It was a five-foot by seven-foot abstract landscape she and her father created together with Pookie working low and Michael working high. The two strategized together on how to make the two works meet in the middle. It was then she learned to be herself, for there would always be a way to fit in the big picture.
Then Michael died…a senseless car wreck at an intersection he’d driven a million times. It just took one time and one truck driver who didn’t see the stoplight.
Life changed. Pookie’s mom tried to take over the business, but she had neither the personality nor the talent. The artists, so successful under Michael’s leadership, were nearly useless at the actual business. When Michael’s primary competitor offered to buy, Joanne sold the business for nearly nothing along with a promise of a job as office manager. She became at work what she’d been at home, the perfect and always reliable appliance, and she was content.
Pookie was not.
Grief consumed her. Even after her father’s funeral, the child insisted for months that he’d be coming home. She was furious when they moved to a smaller house, one her mother could afford, not because she didn’t like the new house but because she was afraid her father wouldn’t know where to find them. For a long time, it settled into a steady anger, one she directed at righting wrongs just as she and her father had done riding from imaginary town to imaginary town. That’s how she found her best friend, Bobby. That’s how she found the “clique” of artistic punks who dressed in black and knew tattoo artists and piercing studios that turned a blind eye if a parental consent form didn’t look exactly “right.” It was also among the punks that she acknowledged and put into practice her natural inclination to love girls and the support available for gay teens through the high school’s Gay/Straight Alliance (GSA). One adult volunteer in particular, Kathleen Romero, saw and understood Pookie in a way the girl had only known with her father. Kathleen’s passion was words and Pookie’s were paint and clay, but Kathleen understood the need to create, to see what others could not and express that vision.
Between the Schindlers, Kathleen, her punk compatriots, and a loving but clueless mother, Pookie finally found a hint of happiness in her now fatherless life. Then, her father’s nemesis, the rival who bought the business, decided he wanted more.
As stepfathers went, he wasn’t that bad. Mainly, he ignored her, which was fine with Pookie. She was damn good at ignoring him
back. That was until her art drew the attention of a gallery owner who worked with the GSA, before she won a full art scholarship to Colorado University in Boulder.
Jealousy is such a nasty beast. The stepfather could own the business, even possess his competitor’s wife, but the man would never achieve Michael Thompson’s level of talent. He sure as hell wasn’t going to live in the shadow of Michael’s daughter.
Beauty school at the community college was the stepfather’s plan for Pookie, that or just a job. In the month before high school graduation, Pookie would come home to find newspaper classified pages lying on her drawing board with advertisements circled – the ones for fast food restaurants and grocery clerks.
The writing was on the wall, but even Pookie was shocked when it came just two days after graduation. Joanne cried as her new husband pushed her daughter out of the house, but she didn’t stop him. Behind his back, the woman mouthed the Schindlers’ name, and Pookie nodded understanding.
Now, just four days later, she was on a bus heading to a new life, one she couldn’t even imagine. She had a rolling duffle—containing more art supplies than clothes—stashed in the belly of the bus and a backpack in the rack above her seat…all that remained of her former life. She wouldn’t have that if Mr. Schindler hadn’t gone with her back to her mother’s home. The stepfather remained mute, stepping away from the far larger Mr. Schindler, as Pookie and her mother went to Pookie’s room and packed what they could in a short time.
“He’ll get over this,” her mother said. “You can come back.”
I doubt that, Pookie thought as she hugged her mother, the woman who had always cared for Pookie tenderly even if she never understood the girl. In an odd way, the realization of how little she would miss her mother, a woman who had always been a stranger to her, saddened Pookie more deeply.
As the miles slipped under the wheels of the bus, Pookie slept, dreaming of riding from imaginary town to imaginary town. She awoke once with an epiphany.