Bull Rider (11 page)

T
hanksgiving came around, but I wasn’t feeling too thankful. It was harder having Ben in the hospital than it was the year before when he was gone in Iraq. Mom wanted the holiday at home, “like normal,” and we were all hauling ourselves back to Palo Alto on Friday to visit Ben. Dad carved the turkey, and Mom served up the potatoes and stuffing.

“I wish Jones had bought those fall calves,” Dad said.

I smoothed the wrinkles out of the fancy cloth napkin in my lap.

“He knows he ain’t doing you no favors taking your stock,” Grandpa Roy said. “That’s your future income. Sell them when they’re fat, and we’ll have more money.”

Dad scowled. “He wanted the calves. And no one else has been round to look at them. I’ll have to take them down to auction.”

I twisted the corner of the napkin tight around my finger.

Grandpa grunted. “They aren’t bidding up at auction this winter. Take them in spring.”

“I’ll get my job back,” Mom said quietly.

Dad turned pale. “Don’t do that, Sherry. You don’t know when Ben will need you. We’ll work something out.”

Now Grandma Jean chimed in. “Honey, you have plenty to do with the ranch and the children and your bookkeeping. You’ll put yourself in an early grave if you start back to work, too. And I have to get back home to Hawthorne one of these days. I won’t be here to help you.”

Of all of it, that was the worst. “You don’t have to go back, do you?” I asked her.

“Pretty soon, Cam. Your Aunt Shawna’s been stopping by my house, but I should look after my own place. And I’ll be wanting to come back when Ben gets home for good. That’s when you’ll need more help.”

“But you live
here
now,” Lali said. “We have more books to read.”

“You’re getting to be a good reader yourself, and I’ll write you letters and you can write back.”

Lali stuck out her lip. “Will they come to the mailbox? Can I open them myself?”

“Yes, they will.” Grandma Jean smiled.

“All right,” Lali said. “Pass the Jell-O salad, please.”

After dinner, we went to the Baptist hall for the annual dessert and prayer meeting. Pastor Fellows started it when I was little so some of the old-timers could share a Thanksgiving meal without feeling like they were taking
a handout from their neighbors. Mike’s dad drove their Suburban around to the old folks’ places, put a step stool on the ground, and collected them up. All of Salt Lick came, didn’t matter if they were Baptist or not, ’cause this was the closest we got to a town party all year.

The desserts were always great—German chocolate cake, Basque flan, and all kinds of cookies. Grandma Jean and Lali had baked three kinds of pies themselves, and Grandpa Roy bought ten gallons of vanilla ice cream last time he was in Winnemucca at the Savers Club.

“You can bring that pie straight into the kitchen, and we’ll get it served up,” Grandma Jean said to me.

I felt the heat from all the people in the hall as we passed through. There were only a few women in the kitchen, and Grandma Jean offered for me to scoop out the ice cream. I rolled up my sleeves and dug in, happy for something to do. When I had about three dozen scoops, we loaded some trays and started carrying them out to the tables.

Darrell waved me over. “How’s Ben?”

“Okay, I guess. We saw him last week. He can move his toes, and now they say he can wiggle his foot.”

Darrell looked away. “His foot, huh? Is that all he can do?”

I felt the need to explain. “No, that’s really good. It means he might walk. That’s what they say. It’s all good. You should go see him in Palo Alto.”

“I’m not much for cities. And Ben don’t want me to see him laid up and sittin’ around in his pajamas.”

“He doesn’t wear pajamas all day.”

“Well, I’ll come by when he’s home in Salt Lick.” Darrell
brightened up. “So when are you coming back to the bull ring?”

“Shhh.” I shook my head. “I can’t. My folks are watching me all the time. It’s making me nuts.”

I took some ice cream over to Mike and Favi and sat down with them.

“What’s up?” Mike asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

“I’m taking my driver’s test Monday. Then I can drive you
unlicensed
teens around.” He grinned.

“No, you can’t,” I said. “You can just drive your mom around.”

“What
is
up with you?” Mike asked.

“Something’s up,” Favi said. “Why is your father trying to sell off calves early?”

Why did Favi always have to know everything? I rested my head in my hands. “We could use the money,” I said.

“I’ve got an idea,” Favi said. “You could go into AI breeding like Amy Jones. You can store up the AI straws from each bull in the freezer and then if a bull wins a big prize and goes out of service, you can sell his straws for ten or twelve thousand dollars
apiece
. That’s good money.” Then she thought a moment. “But you have to have money to buy your straws in the first place.”

“I said we were short on money, not that Dad was looking to spend more.” But Favi was right about Jones making big money. Amy shipped those little AI straws around the world. Honest. The folks who bought them used them to sire calves, and they didn’t have to truck the bull in from Montana or Texas or wherever to have his day with the
cows. But like Favi said, getting started with the equipment and all is expensive.

“I know,” Mike said. “You could ride that bull, Ugly, that Darrell keeps talking about. That’d win you some money.” He made his fingers like horns.

Favi laughed. “Yeah, if you can ride him and you don’t break your neck.”

I shook my head. “You guys are crazy. I’m not doing that.”

About then, Pastor Fellows stood up to start the prayers. He prayed for the old and infirm—that included Ben. He prayed for sinners. After messing up the calf sale, I figured that was me. He prayed for the folks who ran everything from the town recycling to the whole United States. Then we started the thanksgivings—everyone said something out loud. Lali said thanks for her goat, Pretty, and for the letters she was going to get right in our mailbox. Grandma Jean blessed our family, and Mom said she was thankful that Ben was getting better. I didn’t hear Grandpa Roy or Dad because I was too busy thinking up my own speech. Was I thankful that Ben was alive—and messed up? That I’d ridden some bulls—and couldn’t tell anybody? That Grandma Jean made me laugh—and now she was going away? When my turn came around, I passed.

Mike and I didn’t skateboard over Thanksgiving like I’d promised him. The next day, our whole family left for California at three in the morning. Grandma Jean came with us in her Bronco. She was packed to go straight on
back to Hawthorne from there. We got to the hospital in early afternoon. The nurses’ station was decorated with turkeys and big cut-out leaves. Lali gave them a picture of a turkey she’d drawn on the trip across the mountains, and they hung it up like a Picasso painting. Then we all went in to see Ben. It was like I’d never left.

“Hi.” He smiled at Mom. He showed Lali his new arm and she rubbed on it.

“It’s smooth,” she said. “And hard. I thought they’d make you a real arm.”

“My real one’s gone,” Ben said.

Grandpa tried to talk to him about the cows and bulls, but Ben wasn’t having much of it. He kept dropping off to sleep. The rest of the family all decided to go to the canteen for some food, but I said I’d stay with Ben. I could use some time without everybody else.

“You still here?” he asked when he woke up.

“Yeah, you’re stuck with me.”

“I’m not much company,” he said, rolling away from me.

“So, how you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Did they give you turkey yesterday?”

“I don’t remember,” he mumbled. I’m guessing he did remember and he didn’t want to talk, although I suppose he could’ve forgotten, too. I wished Grandpa Roy had stayed behind. He’d have got him talking. Or Grandma Jean, she’d do something to make him laugh. I looked around the hospital room. It’s not your funniest place. There were water cups and paper towels, a spit tray, and some glass doohickeys. Then I spotted the rubber gloves. I pulled one
out of the box and blew it up. The fingers fanned out like a chicken balloon. I tied off the bottom.

“What are you doing?” Ben asked.

“Making you a turkey. Seems like you need a turkey.”

“It needs eyes,” Ben said. “There’s a marker in that drawer.”

I drew eyes on the turkey and made another one and another one. I piled them up in Ben’s lap. “I’m making you a whole flock of turkeys,” I said. I found some adhesive tape and started taping them to the walls.

“That’s a lot of turkeys,” Ben said.

“There’s a lot of turkeys in the world,” I answered. “Here.” I took the marker and wrote names on them. “This one’s Mr. Killworth. And this one’s for the credit-card company that’s bugging Dad. What about you, Ben? What name do you want on a turkey?”

“I don’t know.”

“Sure you do,” I pushed him.

“Nobody. Everybody’s great.”

“You don’t act like everybody’s great.”

And right then he let out with a line of insults and vinegar that I couldn’t write down on the stupid glove turkeys if I tried. He covered everybody from Hitler to Saddam Hussein, from the therapist who stretched on his legs till they hurt to a nurse who wouldn’t give him chocolates. He went nuts with the turkey list. Finally he said, “And the rat-faced piece of scum who shot me.” Exactly how do you get that on a glove?

“Wow,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

By the time they came back, Ben was asleep again and I handed the turkeys to Lali. She drew feathers over the names.

That night in the motel, Grandma Jean woke me up. “You need some fun,” she said. “Come on.” We snuck outside and she pointed to a big blue spruce in the circle in front of the motel. It was the only living thing in a swath of concrete. “They need some holiday spirit and so do you,” she said. And, as if by magic, she pulled Christmas lights and candy canes out of her big rose-covered bag. She opened the back of the Bronco and pulled out some garish red Christmas balls.

“You planned all this, Grandma,” I said.

“We had to do something fun before I left,” she whispered. “Now, see how far you can get up that tree.”

The motel people were asleep and no one driving by seemed to notice an old lady and a kid in his pajamas climbing around in the motel tree with Christmas decorations. The branches were prickly, but I didn’t mind. Once again, Grandma Jean came through. With her around, I didn’t need angels.

G
randma Jean went home, and about ten days later we made one more trip to Palo Alto before Christmas. This time Mom and Dad stayed home with Lali and I drove over with Grandpa Roy.

“Are we staying in the same place?” I asked. Maybe they had seen me and Grandma Jean.

“Why do you ask?” Grandpa Roy looked over at me.

“No reason,” I said. I fussed with the zipper on my jacket.

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with a Christmas tree in the parking lot, would it? Darnedest thing—they decorated that motel in the middle of the night,” he said.

“Yep,” I answered.

“Must be a city thing,” he said.

“Yep.” I smiled and looked at him. He was grinning.

“You know, that happened once out at the salt lick. Right about Christmastime. We were pretty sure the cows
didn’t do it. But your Grandma Jean was in town.”

“Really,” I said, still smiling. “I wish she hadn’t left.”

“Life goes on,” he said.

“So, what other stuff happened at the salt lick?” I asked. “Tell me one of the stories.” Grandpa Roy always had a salt lick story. Of all the old guys who told ’em, Grandpa’s were the craziest, ’cause it was his salt, I’m guessing.

Grandpa turned down the radio and settled back. We were driving by the Humboldt Sink, east of Reno, and this early in the morning, we were the only car on the road. “Did I ever tell you about that baby who started talking after his mother put salt from the lick on his crackers?”

“No, I’d remember that one.”

“Well, there was this new gal in town, she was wife to a teacher—they didn’t last too long, but she had this kind of sickly little baby that she carried around. And in all his life, he never made a sound. She’d had him up to the doctor to see if he was deaf and should go for speech therapy and whatnot. Well, the word was no, he was too young to be talking—about ten months—but he bore watching. That’s what they said.

“I saw that baby a couple of times and it was unnatural the way he didn’t make a noise at all—not even if he fell over, or if a dog come up and licked him. Well, one day we had a barbecue out at the salt lick, way we did for Ben, you know, and she brought the baby. Somebody gave her some crackers for the baby, but he wouldn’t eat them, and sickly as he was, all the women started fussing, trying to get him to eat. Then Neil Jones walks by and says, “Try some salt from the lick. The cows love it.” Everybody laughed, but
darned if she didn’t walk out to the salt lick and break off a hunk of the salt. She crumbled it up over the crackers and the baby sat up and ate ’em all.”

“How many did he eat?” I asked.

“Who knows? A lot. It’s not pertinent to the story. But what is, is that very day they say the baby started talking. He said, ‘Mama’ and ‘Dada,’ and then he started in sentences, and before nightfall they couldn’t shut him up. The doctors said he was a child prodigy or some nonsense, and his folks took him off to Reno and San Francisco for tests. But they never found nothing special about him. And we know why. It was the salt they needed to be testing, not the kid.” Grandpa slapped the steering wheel and laughed.

“That all true?” I asked.

“’Course it’s true.” His blue eyes twinkled.

“Yeah, they’re always true,” I said.

“Darn right.”

Our Christmas tree was still up at the motel, and Grandpa remarked on what fine decorations it had when we checked in. The clerk just looked uncomfortable and gave us the key to our usual room. I would have been just fine hanging out there and watching cable TV. But Grandpa was ready to see Ben.

I have to admit, I was kind of afraid to see him. I never knew what he was going to do, and I would’ve been just as happy letting him do it alone and getting him back when he was more like the Ben I knew. No such luck. We put down our bags and went straight over to the hospital.

Ben was doing water therapy, and we waited for him to finish. Then we took him for a ride around the hallway. Somebody had wrapped boxes and hung them on the walls like Christmas packages.

“Anything happen lately?” I asked.

“No.”

“How’s the therapy?” Grandpa asked.

“Okay.”

“Did you hear from Burton?” I asked.

“No, he’s gone home.”

The wheels of his chair hummed against the floor. A guy went by with a walker and the
galump
sound of his contraption followed him. A kid walked by.

“Stop,” Ben said. “Did you see that kid?”

“Not really,” Grandpa said.

“He looks familiar,” Ben said. “I don’t know why.”

“You’ve probably seen him around with his family,” Grandpa said.

“He looks like a kid I saw selling Indian tacos last month in Elko,” I said.

“I wish I could remember.” Ben looked worried. “I wish I could remember stuff like that.”

We turned into his room. “They’re working on my memory, and some things are coming back. I remember more about when I got hit.”

Grandpa cocked his head. “And?”

“After I got blown out of the truck, I was bleeding. The pain in my arm took over. It’s the worst—the pain just hammered me. I could see my bones sticking through my skin. I started yelling, but nobody was coming for me, and
they were still shooting. I thought someone might finish me off. I needed to play dead. I wanted to scream from the pain, but I just put my head down, bit my lip, and lay there.”

“Then what happened?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I got out of there somehow, but nobody knows how.”

“Somebody knows,” Grandpa said. “You’ll remember.”

“Sure,” Ben said. And just like that, he asked us to get him over to his bed. He was getting pretty good with the arm he had left. He grabbed the bed rail and dragged himself toward the bed. Grandpa moved fast and pushed on his hip the way he did at home. Ben slid into the bed, turned away from us, and said, “I’m tired now.”

“Anything we can get you?” Grandpa asked.

“Bring me two legs that work, okay? And an arm—like the last one.” He didn’t sound like he was joking.

I messed around with his pillows and filled his water glass. I put some magazines on the bedstand.

“We’ll come back later,” Grandpa Roy said.

“Later,” Ben answered, and waved us out of his room.

I wanted to run down the hall, but I matched Grandpa Roy’s gait. We were almost to the door when one of the nurses caught up to us. “Are you visiting Ben O’Mara?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Grandpa said.

“Listen, you are family, right? You should know that he’s getting depressed. We’re trying to work with him, but the therapy is slow. And it’s tiring. They can go out into the community here, and they’re still looking for snipers on overpasses, or they won’t walk past a certain kind of doorway. I don’t suppose he talks about it. These guys can
keep a stiff upper lip for so long and then it gets to them, if you know what I mean?”

Grandpa Roy nodded.

“He could use whatever you can do to cheer him up. We’re doing our best here. They are wounded warriors and they’re proud of what they’ve done. They’re so proud. Ben had such high hopes because of the foot movement. But he’s impatient. It goes with the TBI. He has to keep working until he gets to a breakthrough. Sometimes the guys run out of hope before that happens and then it’s so hard to continue. And it’s the holidays, too. Just ask your family to do whatever they can to support him now, okay?”

Grandpa looked straight at her and said, “He’s a bull rider, you know. He’s not scared of sixteen hundred pounds of animal. I’m thinking he’ll make it through this.”