I was talking a lot and I knew it. Maybe scaring her a bit, but if I’m honest, I wanted her to hear the real me. The one I don’t share with everyone ’cause it hurts too much. “Women want that fairy tale. They love the picture of the knight who breaks down the castle gate, charges the tower, slays the guard, and carries off the maiden on a white horse. But, what about the next picture? What about five years down the road? The knight is designed and trained for battle. It’s his life. It’s him. Men die at his hand. It’s messy. His armor is seldom shiny. It is caked with other men’s blood and guts. He is wounded and scarred but he still spends his nights sharpening his sword because every morning when he rides out the gate, his life may well depend on it.”
I leaned back, resting on the brick wall. “The thing is this… if being a knight is what he was made to do, then how does he live with the maiden in his castle—after the rescue. How does he live as a lover set in a time of terrible war?” I paused. “Every time he leaves the safety of his castle, he fights—both the going out and the return. If he doesn’t, then he is conquered, his wife is raped and tortured while he watches, and his head is cut off and stuck on a stake outside the city walls to dissuade other want-to-be conquerors.” I wiped my eyes. “We live in a world on the other side of the rescue. We are living out the fairy tale and it is different than we thought.”
Tears streaked her face. “Can I have the bullet?”
I handed it to her. She slid it in her jeans. I pulled a second out of my shirt pocket. She held out her hand. I said, “I have more.”
“How many?”
“More than you have pockets.”
She handed the bullet back.
My eyes returned to the prison. “That son of a… well, he needs to die a painful death, but I got a boy at home whose world is crumbling all around him and I can’t do a thing to rebuild it. He’s just a kid and life has punched a bunch of holes in him. I try to pour into him, plug them, but he’s draining out faster than I can fill him up.” I motioned to José Juan. “If I poke a hole in that man, I’ll never get the chance to plug the ones in Brodie.”
She brushed her palm across my cheek. Her whisper was slow in coming. “Maybe he’s not the only one with holes.”
We could see out the slats for miles. The landscape beyond was dotted with unmoving oil derricks. Some tall. Some yellow. Some rust brown. Some oil-sludge black. The heat mirage hazed the backdrop. “The holes in me ran dry a long time ago.”
She curled up alongside me, I slung my arm around her, tucked her shoulder up under mine and pulled her knees into her chest. A pretty good fit. We sat there a while, during which she didn’t say a word. After another hour, she lay down next to the rifle and stared at the fence where José Juan no longer stood. She said, “He’s gone.”
I nodded.
“If you shot him, could you get away with it?”
“I imagine they’d figure it out eventually.”
“But the best thing for the world we live in is for you to shoot him?”
“I think so, but the moment I do that—absent orders from my boss—I put myself in God’s shoes.”
She smiled. “If you could… stand in His shoes for one moment, even one second, what would you do?”
“I’d raise Mr. B, feed him a big bag of oats, and apologize for letting him die in the first place.” I paused. “And, I’d stop Billy Simmons from doing what he done.”
“Nothing for yourself?”
I shook my head. “I don’t want nothing.”
“Would you cure your wife from wanting pain pills?”
“No, I’d fix the reason she took them in the first place.”
She was quiet. Finally, she turned. Sat cross-legged. Back straight. Tapped me in the chest. “What do you want?”
“I don’t understand.”
“What do you want in a woman? In life?”
I thought a moment and stared out my pigeon hole toward the jail. “In the mid-1800s, the Rangers were tasked with, among other things, guarding the border. We’d had a little dispute with the Mexicans at a little place called the Alamo, which we later settled at San Jacinto. As a result, the border, or the Rio Grande River, became a violent and wild place. It was one of the places we ‘ranged.’ We rode in pairs because there weren’t enough of us to ride in threes or hundreds. The choice of weapon, horse, and partner mattered. Who you chose often determined whether you lived or died—and more important, how. Out of that, we began to describe one another by a few simple words: Él es muy bueno para cabalgar el río. Meaning, ‘He’ll do to ride the river with.’ In Texan, it means, ‘I’d trust him with my life.’ ” I scratched my head. “I want someone to ride the river with.”
Tears had streaked her face and were dripping off her chin. She cried easily. Evidence that she felt much, and most often for other people. A rare and beauty-filled gift.
Moments before the noon bells, she took me by the hand and we climbed down.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
A tough week passed. Brodie said little. Knowing they’d come back every year, we planted amaryllis atop the grave and then drove a white cross in the ground. We stood there, the wind tugging at us. There was always a breeze up on the hill. He stared down over the river. “Dad?”
“Yes, son.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“And you won’t get mad?”
“No.”
“Do you like Miss Sam?”
“I think she’s a good woman.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked up at me. “That’s not what I asked you.”
I didn’t look at him. “I’m not sure. I might.”
“What about Mom?”
“Son, I’ll always love your mom. I just can’t be married to her anymore.”
“But, that don’t make any sense.”
“I don’t expect you to understand.”
“What’s to understand?”
“Son, your mom is an addict. She fell in love with another man. She left us. Remember?”
“I know all that. But, it still don’t make sense.” He turned to me. “Do you love Miss Sam?”
“I don’t know, son.”
“You just said you love Mom and if you do then it ain’t right for you to be kissing Miss Sam.”
“Son, I don’t expect you to understand, but I do expect you to give me freedom and to respect my wishes.”
“Dad, I’m not disrespecting you. I’m just telling you what I see.”
I tried to put my arm around him, but he walked down to the river. I walked with him, but he turned. “Dad, I’d like to be alone.”
I watched him and scratched my head. Is this what my life has come to? Has it all led to this?
Two hours later, he walked up from the river. A wrinkle creased the space between his eyes. “Dad, I need to go to town.”
“Right now?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What do you need?”
“I just need something.”
“Can you tell me what it is?”
“I’d rather not.”
He got this from me. I knew that. I also knew that the bur under his saddle wouldn’t go away simply ’cause I told him no. “Okay.”
We drove to town. His arm resting on the open window. We crossed the city limits and he rolled up his sleeves. They were two rolls above his elbows. “Where we going?” He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, then pointed at the drugstore. I parked and put the stick in neutral. We sat listening to the Cummins idle.
He pulled on the door handle, but paused before he stepped out. “I’d like to do this alone.”
“Okay.”
He stepped out. His shoulders looked broader. He’d grown taller. He walked toward the drugstore, stopped at the entrance, pulled down hard on his hat, then turned and started running down the street at full go. I hopped out of the truck and started walking after him. He looked over his shoulder, saw me, crossed the street,
ran two more blocks and turned into the front door of the professional office of Earl Johnson, MD.
I swore.
When I pushed open the door, Brodie wasn’t in the waiting room. Neither was anyone else. I heard a commotion in the back so I walked past the receptionist’s desk toward the noise. I turned the corner and two female nurses had him cornered. He was shaking his head. “No, I don’t have an appointment and I’d like to see him right now.” I stepped into the small waiting area about the time Earl Johnson rushed out of his office. All five of us stood in a circle. I extended my hand to Brodie. “Brodie… come on.”
The nurses stood aside. Brodie was breathing heavy and looking up at all of us. His face was wet, tears were puddling. He was on the verge. Earl had yet to say a word. Brodie caught his breath, looked at me, then back at Earl. He spoke clearly. “Dr. Johnson, do you love my mom?”
Earl looked baffled. Tried to shrug it off with a laugh. “Excuse me, son?”
Brodie stepped toward him. “Do you love my momma, Andie Steele?”
“Son, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“But the kids at my school said you made house calls to my momma’s apartment and that you were lucky my dad didn’t shoot you when he found you naked in her room.”
Earl shook his head, more uncomfortable laughter. “Your father never found me naked—”
I took two steps and hit him square in the mouth. Something crunched in his face and he crumpled. Both nurses screamed. Blood ran from his mouth and nose and he spit out several pieces of teeth. He lay on the floor, one eye staring up at me, the other rolling back in his head. I stood over him. Blood trickling down my hand where I’d cut my middle knuckle. “That’s for lying. And if you get up off that floor, I’ll give the one you ought to get for sleeping with my wife.” I put my hand on Brodie’s shoulder and led him toward the door. He was looking over his shoulder as we walked out.
We got into the truck, I cranked it, and we drove out of town. The blood drying on my hand and arm. When the hard road turned to dirt, I pulled off to the side, pushed in the clutch, and slid the stick into neutral. I sat there, staring at my life on the other side of the glass. “Brodie?”
His eyes were wide. “Yes, sir?”
I shook my head. “I know we got problems. A lot seems to be going wrong. I can’t quite get my hands around it. I see you growing up and I couldn’t be more proud. You’re… you’re everything I ever hoped a son would be. And I know you’re hurting way down deep. I know we both are.” I swallowed. “But, all I’ve got is you.” Two tears rolled down my face. Dripped onto my jeans. “It won’t always be like this, but right now… I need you. And you need me. And—” I stared down at my hands. “That man in there, Dr. Johnson, he did wrong. Real wrong. I don’t like him. I pretty much hate him. But he’s not the one you should be mad it. You… you should be mad at me.” His eyes grew wider. “Not for what I did. But for what I didn’t do.”
“But Dad, I don’t under—”
“Your mom needed something I never gave her.”
He scooted into the middle seat. I put my arm around him and he grabbed the stick with two hands. I pushed in the clutch, he shoved it into first and we eased toward home. We wouldn’t be able to do this much longer. His knees were getting in the way. After he shifted into third, he sat back, looked up at me, and said, “I know, Dad. I know. I just needed to know if you knew.”
He gets that from his mom.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
I was sipping coffee when I heard the truck rumbling down the road, hitting every pothole. I glanced out the window. Sam skidded to a stop in front of the house, nearly turning the truck sideways. She got out and left the truck running and walked quickly toward the door, an open shoebox in her hand.
I opened the door. She looked tired. Worried. She offered the box. “Help.”
Turbo lay unmoving in the box. His stomach was real swollen and he looked to be having some sort of spasm. Hope stared at me through the passenger’s side window. This recipe had disaster written all over it.
Brodie walked up behind me, rubbing his eyes. I told him, “Get in the truck.”
He took one look at Turbo and did exactly what I told him. Sam followed me to town and the only vet within thirty miles. There were lots of veterinarians who served the area of Rock Basin but they drove from all over. Only one lived in town.
Sarah Glover was a local girl done good. She’d put herself through veterinary school, come back home, and built a good reputation. Only problem was, she tended to care for large animals: like cows. Our chances were slim, but I didn’t tell Sam or Hope that.
I took the box and told Brodie to stay with Hope while Sam and I walked up and knocked on Sarah’s door. Moments later, she unlocked it and looked up at me through Coke-bottle glasses. “Hey, Cowboy. How you doing?”
I offered the shoebox. “Sarah”—I looked over my shoulder then held up the box—“this is Turbo, and I need some help and even if you can’t help me I need you to act like you can.” She eyed the box, then the girl watching us from the front seat. “Roger that.”
We walked in her office. All five of us stood in a circle around a silver gurney. Sarah clicked on an overhead light and began asking questions. “Tell me about this guy.”
Hope spoke. “Well, he’s not moving around much. Not really eating. Sleeping a lot. He had a seizure a little while ago where he stretched out real straight and stiff and stayed that way for a few minutes. And his stomach is weird in places. Like he’s growing a tumor.” Sarah pulled on a stethoscope and began listening to Turbo’s heartbeat. She gently probed around his body, listening. She opened his mouth, stared into his eyes, then moved the stethoscope down around his tummy. After about five seconds, she said, “Has Turbo been around any other guinea pigs?”
Sam shook her head. “No. Just us.”
“How long have you had him?”
“A little over two months.”
“Where’d you get him?”
“Pet store in the mall.”
Sarah pulled off her stethoscope. She was trying not to smile. “Well, couple of things. First, Turbo isn’t a he. He’s a she. And she—” Sarah’s smile grew wide—“is about to give birth.” She held out a hand to Hope. “Congratulations. You’re going to be a mommy.”
Hope’s eyes grew saucer-wide. “Really?”
“Yep.”
Hope got bouncy. “Well, how’d that happen?”
Sarah smiled. “In my experience, if you put guinea pigs around each other long enough, you end up with more guinea pigs. Usually something in the water.”
Hope was jumping up and down. “What do we do? What do we do?”
Sarah shook her head. “Nothing. Let her do her thing. Probably have four or five when it’s all said and done.”
Sam laughed and sat down, hanging her head between her hands. “I thought he was dying.”
I said, “You mean ‘she.’ ”
She smiled. The relief painted across her face was palpable. Her eyes were teary. “Yes, she.”
We walked out and Sarah patted me on the shoulder. “Nice job, Cowboy.”
“I didn’t know. It’s not like it’s a cow.”
When she shut the door, she was laughing pretty hard.
By eight o’clock that night, Sam called with the news that Turbo had birthed three babies and didn’t seem finished. Thursday morning, she called again. She sounded sleep-deprived and caffeine-infused. “Hey, I need your address.”
“What for?”
“Hope would like you to know that she and Turbo are the proud mother of five healthy and suckling babies and they need your address to send you a birth announcement.”
“That’d be a first.”
“Yep, me, too.” I heard Hope giggling on the other end. Sam’s voice quieted. “You haven’t forgotten have you?”
“Forgotten what?”
“I knew it. You forgot already.”
“But I don’t know what I??
?ve forgotten if you don’t tell me.”
“Tomorrow is the last day of the month, and when we were in the river you said—”
“Oh, no. I hadn’t forgotten that. I’ll be there at six.”
“Good. Oh, and Cowboy?”
“Yeah?”
“I got you a surprise.”
“What is it?”
“If I told you, then it wouldn’t be a surprise now would it? You’ll just have to wait and see.”
To be honest, I was already thinking about that.
CHAPTER FORTY
Dumps looked at me and said, “He gets out in about thirty minutes.”
I nodded. “We better get going.”
We drove to the prison, the guard waved us through the main gate, and we wound around to the admin building just outside the main walls where they process the inmates who are being released. We waited.
At 4:00 p.m., the gate opened and Mike “Jumpy” Silvers, now seventy-seven, walked out. Just fifty-seven years after he walked in. Dumps walked toward him. The two stared at each other several minutes. Finally, Mike shook his head. “I don’t know what to say.”