The True Father (17 page)

   Within the next hour I rode two more times, once going three seconds, the second going four. Each time I felt as though I was improving, but now my body felt fatigued and I needed a break.

   After the last ride Boyd got up from the bleachers, went to his truck and drove away. I wanted to talk to him hoping I could get some pointers, but obvious to me he wasn't quite ready to be that friendly.

   The rest of us sat on the ground under a shade tree outside the arena and talked about the rides. To help cool off I drank spring water from a squeeze bottle and Jeremiah refreshed himself with the typical beer and cigarette. Jason and Tate each drank a plastic bottle of Mountain Dew, and when they were done they each retrieved a can of Copenhagen from their back pockets, pinched a small dip and put it inside their bottom lip, then used the empty Mountain Dew bottles as a spittoon. Jeremiah even got out his bottle of corn whiskey and passed it around. I declined but Jason and Tate were quick to accept. I could tell by the way they grinned at each other and tipped the bottle that it was their first time. And the results were about as dramatic as I remembered, laughs from Jeremiah included, but I didn't have a dip of chew to hack out with it. In one fashion or another, I guess all young men of this life have to lose their moonshine virginity sometime.

   Jeremiah said I was doing great and that what I had to do now was find that grove. I wasn't sure I knew what he meant, but hoped that it would eventually come to me. What I had learned was that the bull seemed tireless and was capable of offering whatever challenge I desired. Though four seconds on a bull like Bloody Mary was not that great of an accomplishment for most riders, to me it was major. And even though it happened so quickly, to think of staying on twice as long made seconds seem like hours. I suddenly wondered if I'd be satisfied if success happened today. Satisfied to the point where I could put my entire past to rest, and allow the legend of Jettie Hodge to carry on without flaw.

   We all turned our heads to look at a vehicle that turned into the arena parking lot. It was an older green Ford station wagon, and when it came to a stop nearby I recognized Buddy Wells in the driver's seat. Not far behind him a pickup pulling a trailer came in as well. It was a new silver extended cab Chevy pickup that pulled a matching silver trailer. The truck had Texas license plates and I didn't recognize the heavyset man that drove it.

   Buddy got out of his car, smiled and waved at us, then opened the back door of his station wagon and pulled out some clothing on wire hangers. He also grabbed a blue plastic sack, closed the door with his foot then came walking toward us.

   The heavyset man in the pickup stepped out as well. He wore a red farm cap, short sleeved western shirt, dark blue jeans and dusty boots. He nodded and smiled at Jeremiah.

   “About time y'all got here,” Jeremiah said, standing to shake the heavyset man's hand. “Trevor's already rode twice.”

   Their presence was obviously planned and for a reason that Jeremiah had failed to tell me about. Buddy smiled at me and suddenly I recognized that the clothing he carried on the hangers was clown apparel. He asked me about my rides and I told him about them in the briefest manner possible, then made way for my own question.

   “So what are you doing here?”

   He pointed down at Jason and Tate. “Oh, Jeremiah thought it best to relieve these youngsters of their duties and bring a real clown into the arena.”

   I looked at the clothes again and studied his face for sincerity. “No shit?”

   “Hey, when it comes to clown work this boy doesn't clown around.”

   I'm sure my smile was a timid one as he laughed and slapped me on the arm and then shook my hand. I couldn't think of a better way to ride and feel the presence of camaraderie the way my father had than with Buddy in the arena with me. Nothing could have added more to my confidence, and I suddenly felt the bond of friendship he and Jettie once had.

   Buddy turned his head to the heavyset man. “Trevor, I'd like you to meet Paul Baldwin from Midland, Texas.”

   We shook hands and Paul offered condolences and compliments about Jettie, and at the same time I tried to figure out why all the sudden his presence had a stroke of familiarity.

   Jeremiah came to my aid. “Trevor, old Baldy here is a stock contractor and come Thursday night he's going to supply the bull that you drew for your ride.”

   First of all, Thursday night was two nights away and I knew nothing about a scheduled rodeo. But then it came to me. Cyclone, the infamous bull, was sold to a contractor in Midland, Texas. I looked toward his trailer, and through the corrugated rails saw the silhouette of a bull.

   “You mean to tell me—”

   “That's right,” Jeremiah said. “For Thursday night's rodeo, you drew Cyclone.”

   “I don't know what to say.”

   “You don't have to say nothing,” Buddy said. “You just have to get back on Bloody Mary and get to practicing.”

   “Bloody Mary?”

   “That's right,” Jeremiah said. “In the meantime, Cyclone will be right here at the arena for you to study”

   “I see. So how did you arrange for me to be in a rodeo?”

   “Well, this is a special kind of rodeo. One event, one bull, one rider. Right here in this arena.”

   “You've arranged all that just for me?”

   “Why the hell not?”

   Realizing they were serious, I walked down to the trailer to get my first look at the bull that in part had changed so many people's lives. I peeked through the rails and tried not to rile him. He was mostly black with a white face and thick ivory horns cut flat on the ends. He also had a large hump, which indicated the Brahma portion of his breeding. He acknowledged my presence by lowering his head and blowing through his nostrils. Dust and dried manure swirled from the floor of the trailer under his nose. Like Jeremiah had said, he looked no more dangerous than any other bull, but as fate would have it, this bull had an unchangeable mark. And come Thursday night, the opportunity would come for us both to challenge that history.

 

 

   Buddy changed into his clown gear and he agreed to allow one of the boys to help him. Neither of them volunteered so he finally asked Tate to assist and he kindly accepted the task. And Buddy wouldn't allow him to be out of uniform, either. He gave him a straw cowboy hat painted florescent green along with a pair of bibbed overalls that looked three times his size and cut off at the knees. They sat down on the bleachers and Buddy painted his face white and red around the mouth. He did the same to himself by looking into a small portable mirror that he hung on one of the fence rails. The rest of the team helped me in the chute. Paul chose to be the gate man while Jeremiah and Jason helped me gear up. I rosined my glove and rigging handle again while Jeremiah went over the basics. 

   “Now you've been on this bull three times. You know what it does and how it feels.”

   I nodded.

   He patted me on the shoulder. “Giver hell, cowboy!”

   When the gate opened it was déjà vu. The bull spun left and kept spinning, only this time I felt more secure, and each time the bull bucked and shifted my balance was maintained. I could hear them yelling and cheering, and suddenly I heard the sound of a horn and jumped off. I landed on my hands and knees but quick back to my feet. Either the bull sensed its defeat or it was simply tired of me being on its back because it came for me. I ran quickly but it seemed to know the perfect angle to cut me off. But before it could get too close Buddy was there to deter it, and with the help of his protégé clown I was freed from the bull's wrath.

   The bull found the opened gate and Paul closed it behind. Then they all came to me, Jeremiah and Buddy both offering congratulatory embraces while Jason and Tate offered high fives and Paul a firm handshake.

   “You did it!” Jeremiah said. “You're now a full blown, pain in the ass cowboy!”

   They continued to compliment me on how well I did, even though I'm not sure how I did it. As far as I knew, anyone could be an accountant. All it required was four years of college and the ability to live alone inside a cubicle forty hours a week. In bull riding one could learn the fundamentals in less than a week, but it required a certain physique as well as a ton of courage. So for me it was a remarkable triumph, so much that it made me fear the evening ahead. I'd had four chances at eight seconds with Bloody Mary, with only the pressure to learn and make it one step closer to my goal. But now Cyclone was the goal, and there would only be one chance to make it. And the pressure was not so much about making the time itself, but making the time for someone else. To display that kind of honor for a man I've come to know was the greatest pressure of all.

   The thick T-bone steaks sizzled on the grill next to two large potatoes wrapped in aluminum foil. With a small yellow brush I basted the steaks with barbeque sauce then laid the brush on a plate next to the grill. Flies buzzed around like vultures and landed on the brush once abandoned. No matter how vigorously I shooed them away they were persistent in their return.

   The evening was still fairly hot and the heat from the grill made the backyard atmosphere that much hotter. And Buddy had mixed us each a hot toddy in thick plastic mugs and, save the heat and sweat on our foreheads, we were well into a feeling good stage. 

   We sat in lawn chairs and I watched over the meat while Buddy told me a few old rodeo tales as well as stories of past loves.

   “I've had a lot of girlfriends, but only one could claim to have ever owned my heart, and the only girlfriend that I didn't meet at a rodeo.”

   “Ironic, huh?”

   “Yeah. Her name was Valerie. I called her Val. She was a teacher at this elementary school where me and this other rodeo clown were invited to show off to the kids. The moment I laid eyes on her I knew I had to get to know her. She looked just like Gunilla Hutton on Hee Haw. You know who I'm talking about?”

   “Can't say that I do.”

   “She was a damn looker, let me tell ya. Long, thick blonde hair, eyes bluer than the sky, and boy was she curvy.”

   “The outside sounds pretty good. But was that all you loved about her?”

   “Oh no, she was a sweetheart. Treated me like a king.”

   “So what happened?”

   “I asked her to marry me.”

   “That was a problem?”

   “For her it was. She said that she couldn't and I never saw her again.”

   “And that was the love of your life?”

   “Yessir, it was. And I cried all night over that woman.”

   “Really? Here I figured cowboys were too tough to cry.”

   “No sir, in fact a cowboy's heart is probably softer than any other man's. It's the skin that's tough.”

   “Soft heart, tough skin, hard head. Right?”

   This made him chuckle a bit. “You've got it, pardner.”

   By the time the steaks and potatoes were ready, he had mixed us another toddy. Not much was said while we ate. Maybe an occasional compliment to the steak, or to the chef, but other than that it was the sound of cutting and chewing.

   After the meal it was time for another toddy and we sat back in the lawn chairs, scratched our bellies and chewed on toothpicks.

   “So what about you?” he asked. “You found the love of your life yet?”

   I shrugged. “Couldn't tell ya.”

   “Ah, if you had you'd know it.”

   “I had a girlfriend back in KC. Amber. But she was more of a friend than anything else.”

   “Yeah, I had them, too. But not near the same thing.”

   “There used to be this Italian girl that lived up the street from me. She was twelve and I was fourteen. I'd ride my bike by her house as often as I could, hoping to see her. I guess you'd call it a crush. I thought about her a lot. Went to sleep every night with her on my mind.”

   “That's the feeling I'm talking about. ‘Can't get her out of your head' kind of feelings.”

   “I never felt that way again until I met Bella.”

   “Well let me tell ya something, pardner. Miss Bella is as fine a woman as they come. Been through a lot in her life so it might be kind of tough to get her to open up, but man what a woman you'd have if she did.”

   “You really think so?”

   “Hell yes! Don't you?”

   “I just don't think we're very compatible.”

   “What the hell do you mean by that?”

   “We were raised totally different.”

   “Well let me tell ya something else, pardner. When it comes to love, everybody is compatible.”

   “How can you say that?”

   “You don't love somebody for what you want. And if you really love them, then you'll let them enjoy being themselves.”

   “That makes sense, but it makes it hard to be together.”

   “I didn't say you have to be together.”

   “Then what good is loving someone if you can't be with them?”

   “I guess it's just my theory, but I don't believe that you can chose who you love. I believe that love chooses you.”

   “I guess that explains you and Val, right?”

   “That's right. I had no control over it. I saw her and I wanted her. And once I met her I loved her.”

   “But don't you think you could have done something to get her to be with you?”

   “Sometimes that's the misery of love. Not everybody is as fortunate to be loved back. And it'll make a fella cry every time.”

   He went inside to the kitchen and mixed us another toddy while I pondered his love logic. Dusk was now upon us and occasionally a lightening bug would flash somewhere in a darkened area of the lawn. When he came back with our toddies I noticed that he stumbled, somewhat, and nearly upset the lawn chair as he sat down. But I didn't even realize how drunk I was getting until I rose from my chair to go to the bathroom. So the feeling good stage was behind us, and the drunken stage had arrived.

   When I returned I sat slowly into the lawn chair and peered out into the darkness. Through the trees I could now see the stars, and at the bottom of the grill a few charcoals still glowed a fiery orange. The only light upon us now shined through the kitchen window. It was not much, but enough to highlight Buddy's profile and attract a swarm of moths, June bugs and hundreds of tinier flying insects.

   “You know,” I said, “I've never cried for a girl before.”

   “Never?”

   “I wonder if I ever will.”

   “You're bound to sometime. I guess it's the one way of knowing if you really love someone.”

   “How so?”

   “Well, you either cry because you're afraid you're gonna lose them, or you cry because you have.”

   “You think Jettie ever cried?”

   “Jettie was a tough old bird, but I did see him cry once.”

   “You did?”

   “In fact it was a night just like tonight. Right here at this house.”

   “What was he crying about?”

   “Couldn't tell you. We had just got back from a rodeo up in Springdale, Arkansas. We decided to mix a couple toddies and before we knew it we was damn near walking on our knees.”

   “And he just started crying?”

   “No, he said he had to go take a leak and he got to taking a long time about it so I went to see if he was all right. I went to the bathroom and the door was open and he wasn't in there. I heard sniffling and that's when I looked through the bedroom door. He was sitting on the floor next to the bed, elbows on his knees looking at something and crying.”

   “What was he looking at?”

   “Don't know. I asked him if he was all right and that startled him. He wiped his eyes and whatever he was looking at he stuffed between the bed mattresses and walked out of the room. He went plumb out the back door and I never saw him again until morning.”

   “And you never asked him what it was about?”

   “I figured if he wanted me to know he'd have told me.”

   “How long ago was this?”

   “Hell, I don't know. Fifteen, maybe twenty years ago.”

   I wasn't sure why I lingered on this topic, but for some reason the thought of seeing a man like Jettie—who everybody loved for his heroic and manly distinction—cry, seemed very much out of character. But then again he was a man, like any other man, who had his private side and dealt with misery in his own way.

   Another hour and two toddies later Buddy and I decided to sing. He tried to teach me a few cowboy songs, like Tumbling Tumbleweeds by Sons of the Pioneers, Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys by Willie Nelson and Waylon Jennings, then a finale of Killin' Time by Clint Black. I knew that one so we sang it together. 

   Then we resorted to telling silly jokes and laughing until our stomachs hurt.

   “You know what priests and Christmas trees have in common?” Buddy asked.

   I shook my head, already laughing.

   “They both have balls but they're just for decoration!”

   I fell out of my chair laughing and so did Buddy. We looked up at each other and we laughed so hard we cried. We rolled around on the ground like a couple of mad hyenas, and eventually wore ourselves to the point we couldn't take anymore. We both sat on our knees, trying not to look at each other but still laughed when we did. Then Buddy tipped his mug and sucked down the last of his toddy.

   “I'm ready for another one,” he said in a drunken slur. “But I don't think I can stand up.

   We both laughed again and tried to help each other up. Arm-in-arm we walked into the kitchen, laughing and stumbling over each other's feet and singing again the chorus to Killin' Time.

   “You make the toddies,” he said. “I've got to take a piss.”

   “Are you sure you can walk?”

   “If I can't then I'll crawl.”

   He laughed all the way through the kitchen, stumbling and falling against the walls.

   I made us both another drink but Buddy never returned to the kitchen. I worked my way to the bathroom and found him passed out on the floor. It was all I could do to pick him up and carry him to the davenport, so that's where I left him for the night.

   I worked my way back to the bathroom to make my own attempt at urinating. I held one hand against the wall for support, and as I thought about the evening I laughed and found myself urinating on the floor. But because of my good cheer I thought nothing of it, finished the job and went on my way.

   I started to go back to the kitchen to get my toddy when I stopped at the bedroom door and looked inside the room. I reached around the wall and flicked on the light switch and looked down at the bed.    After staring at the bed for a moment, I walked toward it, dropped slowly to my knees and put one hand on top of the bed while the other felt between the mattresses. I slid my hand from left to right until finally I felt a slick piece of paper, pulled it out and saw that it was an older color photograph, rectangular with rounded corners, like from a 110 camera.

   I slid down to where I sat on the floor and leaned my back against the bed. I rested my elbows on my knees and looked at the photo closely, at the young man in western apparel, about my size maybe thinner, with hair over his ears and a cowboy hat pushed back on his head. He smiled proudly, and in his arms he held a baby—a hand underneath its bottom as if to show it off. It was bald headed with rounded eyes and fat cheeks, and it smiled slightly with a line of slobber hanging from its mouth. And next to the man and the baby was a woman. I recognized her immediately. Her smile seemed sincere, and she was young and beautiful. 

   Reddish orange numbers were imprinted on the lower left-hand corner of the photo. They read “07 77”.

   As I held the photo with one hand and ran the fingers of my other hand through my hair, I studied the faces in the photo—particularly Jettie's face, as he revealed himself in a manner that no man could have taken away.

   I turned the photo over, took a heavy breath and looked down between my knees. The mixture of whiskey and hot water, along with a wealth of sudden emotion, made me feel as though my blood was expanding in my veins. But rather than rupturing internally it seemed to convert itself to air and discharge through my lungs, and once the largest part of it was gone, all my energy was exhausted, then all I could do was cover my eyes and weep.