Bull Head (16 page)

“You've always lived here?”

“Yeah.”

She's silent for a moment, turns the ashtray in circles on the table as if she's considering asking me something important, likely about my childhood so she can get to know me better. I veer the conversation toward her and ask, “What brought you to town?”

“A postcard.” She laughs. “Can you believe that? I remember thinking how beautiful it was. What I didn't know was I'd have to work all the time to make rent. I haven't even been out in the mountains, hiking or fishing or anything that involves leaving main street.” She sucks on the filter and exhales. I've never seen anyone get so much out of a cigarette.

“It's harsh back there. The mountains aren't all they're built up to be.”

She touches my hand and lowers her black eyes. Then she smiles, as if she's suddenly shy. It's not cold in the diner, but I'm shivering.

I look down at my plate, run my finger along the edge, and offer her the most honest line I've spoken all night. “Want a free ride home?”

We were out on the sun-baked dirt in the squeeze chutes, flanking the calves one at a time. Harley rammed the hot iron into
their sides, and the stench of burnt flesh filled my nostrils; their spindly limbs kicked up dust. Some man who hadn't said a word all afternoon shot the calf with a dose of medicine, pulled out his Leatherman, and lopped off a chunk of ear, tossed it in the dirt where the heelers growled and scrapped each other for it. Hops kept the calf's neck pinned with his knee, laughing as the calf trembled.

“Billy, it's about time you gave this a try.” Harley handed me a blade. “Hops, grab the front legs and pinch 'em tight.” Harley and the silent guy tied the rear legs together, cinched the knot. To get rid of the bugs, Harley sprayed Muskoil and smeared a dark wash of iodine across the scrotum with a brush. “Now.”

The calf lay stock-still. I held the knife tight, and despite watching them do it all afternoon, I couldn't remember where I was supposed to make the cut, top or bottom.

“C'mon, boy, don't pussy out on me now,” Harley said. The calf jerked. “Cut it. Here.”

“Fuckin' delinquents,” the silent guy muttered. He crushed my fingers when he grabbed the knife from me, slit the bottom third of the scrotum, and blood shot out, splashed onto my arm. The calf bawled. The guy pressed his fingers along the sack until the testicles appeared like bloodied walnuts. He snipped the tendons of each, snatched my wrist, and dumped them in my hand, where they twitched in my palm, warm and sticky. He sprinkled a rash of powder on the slit and dusted off his jeans, a look of disgust on his face. Harley and Hops released the calf. It limped off, blood trickling down its hindquarters.

Afterward, over an open flame and beneath cold starlight, Harley fried them up. He spilled a stubby of beer into the
cast-iron skillet, dumped in a beaten egg, a fistful of cornmeal, flour, salt, and pepper. “Here,” he said.

I shook my head. All day I tried to keep clear of Hops, but he hovered nearby.

The hum of the quads drew closer; Harley wandered off to meet them. The heelers circled the fire, tongues hanging out, eyes glinting like embers. Hops plucked a testicle out of the skillet, shook Tabasco on it. “Not a word to anyone, motherfucker,” he said, swallowing the glob with a smirk. “I'm all you've got.”

Linda leaves the door to her basement suite unlocked for me on nights I work late. I take frequent breaks from my shifts and stop in to see her at the restaurant. I sit at the same table, near the service area, where I can watch her come and go, and we can share a quick smoke and talk trash about the customers. She's got a soft laugh, and when she leans over me to pour coffee, I can look down her white dress shirt at her lace bra. The rose quartz swings near the rim of my cup. She's got fabulous hips that sway side to side in tight black polyester pants, and when she flips her fleece sweater over her shoulder, waves goodbye to her co-workers, and reaches for my arm as we walk out into the cool mountain night, I'm part of something real, as if my presence counts in the world. She slides across the seat, places a hand on my thigh, and rests her head on my shoulder. Although I want to get to her place as fast as possible, I also want the moment to last. I take a deep breath of her hair and drive slow through the streets toward the river.

We sit on a flat, cool boulder along the riverbank, a blanket wrapped around our shoulders. I pull a beer from a six-pack
hooked on a twig in a quiet back eddy and hand it to her. We clink cans and drink.

“I can't wait to get out of here,” she says. “Make my cash, get on with seeing the real world.”

I toss my beer can behind me, reach for another, crack it open. I've heard this talk before from outsiders. It's mind-numbing in its predictability. They have no idea what they're talking about, thinking life is elsewhere. I drink fast, want the beer to wash away the disappointment. Downriver, elk bugle, their screeches rise into the starlight. “Bet you've never seen anything like this before.” I tip my can toward the river and trees and the outline of the mountains. “You said you wanted to get out of town and see the mountains. Well, here you are.” I finish my beer and suppress the urge to burp, crush the can before chucking it behind me, and reach to grab another beer out of the river.

“What's that sound?” Her voice is quiet as if she knows she's offended me.

“Elk.” I lob a rock in the river.

“Do they always cry like that?” She draws circles on my palm.

“They're calling out, challenging one another to fight for their harem of cows.”

The screeches stop. Then grunting, muffled panting, an unsettling, primal sound, one you never get used to.

“How many cows?”

“Dunno. Lots. Twenty or so. They'd leave him in a sec if he showed any weakness. There's no loyalty.”

She finishes her beer. The bulls wheeze and snort in the distance. Her body lays heavy and warm against me. “What about you?”

“Do I have a harem of cows?”

She kisses my chin, places her hand on my crotch, squeezes it. I feel myself harden and shift but she clutches me tight. “Are you loyal?”

I close my eyes and push up against her hand and hear her make a low sound in her throat. “I am now.”

A week after the roundup, I was back in the south country. I had pleaded with Mom that I wanted to go with her to the bar, promised I'd stay put in the truck. But she was having none of it, told me how important it was to spend time with Harley. She said he was good for me, a real man of action.

Harley had Hops and me doing make-work jobs for Vince at the Last Stop 'n' Shop, spitting distance from the border. “I'll be back in a bit,” Harley said, before speeding off on a quad toward the woods.

Hops and I stood behind the store, leaning against the wall. Hops sprayed some Lysol on Wonder Bread, stuffed it in his mouth, and handed a piece to me. The damp bread filled my mouth with a sharp taste like chemical apples and green jujubes. He squirted lighter fluid on the parched, knee-high grass around us. “Light it.”

My face burned, and my hands trembled with the matchbox.

“What's the matter? No balls?”

“Quit screwing around, boys.” Vince poked his head around the corner. “Pick up the garbage and cut the weeds.” He glared at us for a long moment. “Ah, hell, get inside. I got something else for you two clowns to do.”

“Chickenshit,” Hops said. “Knew you couldn't do it.”

In the back storeroom, Vince instructed us to sweep the floor and sort and stack old soft-drink empties in wooden crates. As soon as Vince left to attend to customers at the front of the store, Hops cracked open a bottle with his teeth and spit out the bottle cap; it rattled across the floor and disappeared under a mop and bucket. He drank the pop slow, his Adams apple bobbing as he swallowed.

“Making any progress?” Vince stood in the doorway, surveying the clutter. The shop door jingled. “It's a buck a pop, each. There's no handouts here. We'll make men of you yet.” He walked to the front of the store. The door swung shut behind him.

“You got any cash?”

I shook my head. The bread was still glued to the top of my mouth. My stomach churned, and my head felt stuffed with wet cotton.

“Guess I'm just gonna have to fuck you up. Bad.” Hops grabbed my neck and squeezed. I couldn't breathe; I knocked his arm away and massaged my throat. He held up the bottle and dropped it on the concrete floor.

“I hope that wasn't what I thought it was,” Vince yelled from the front. “Four bucks and counting.”

Hops held up another, dangled it between his thumb and forefinger. “You a momma's boy, ain't you?”

“Stop it.” I tried to knock his wrist away but missed.

“I bet he's done time with Harley,” Hops said. “Fucking low-life mules.” He locked the door, lifted his T-shirt, hard ridges of scars twisted like knotted wood across his gut. He picked up another bottle half full of pop, held it up. “Your turn.”

I tried to speak, but my tongue was thick.

“That'll pass,” he said. “Remember to breathe.”

I inhaled in short gasps. My head was fuzzy; the room blurred.

Hops laughed and nodded at my jeans. I shook my head but the motion made me feel nauseous. His hands reached to unzip them, the zipper a hoarse muffle that seemed to come from far away. He yanked my pants down with my briefs; they dropped like a heavy husk. The air was cold, and my skin felt bumpy and pebbled. I heard myself blurt out, “Vince,” but Hops cuffed my face and pressed his palm against my mouth.

He swung the bottle and laughed, his face twisted and misshapen, flesh like plasticine. “You're royally messed up.” He pushed me over a crate; the bottles clinked beneath me. I shuddered uncontrollably. He slid his thumb over the bottle top, shook it, and draped an arm over me, pulled me in tight. “Your momma would be proud of you.” He jammed the bottle inside me; I cried out. He stuffed the neck in further until my stomach lurched and my insides felt as if they were pouring out of me. I was dry heaving, retching myself hoarse.

“Word is, your momma squeals like a pig,” he said. “Like a stuffed pig. Just like you.”

I tried to keep away from him as I dressed. He pointed to my shirt and laughed. It was on backward. I fumbled with my zipper, attempted to button my jeans. Vince's voice came from somewhere in the store, but I couldn't make out what he was saying. Hops shoved a mop in my hand and kicked a bucket toward me. “You're still gonna pay for the soda.”