Marathon Cowboys (9 page)

me and passed me the bottle of ketchup.

The old man sat down. The steak in front of him was as

big as mine. “Cartoonists and artists, they need lots of beef,

they want to get anything done.” He pointed the tip of a

steak knife in my direction. “Remember that. You won’t get

dick done running on rabbit food.”

We ate for awhile, the quiet of the kitchen filled with the

mighty sound of molars on steak. I wondered how many

other houses in America were sitting down to a dinner like

this. I put some pepper on my steak. This might be the very

best steak I had ever eaten. It tasted like The Original had

fried it in bacon grease. Well, if there were many other

households eating like this, I suspected they were probably

in Marathon, Texas.

“I think I’m going on a little field trip tomorrow,” Jesse

said. “You want to come?” I looked up. This was directed at

me, but I was too happy eating and couldn’t be bothered to

talk. “I’m going to look at Bathtub Marys. You want to see

that, don’t you, Mary?”

Actually, I did. I had seen one of those roadside shrines

on the way down from Alpine—a glass-fronted cabinet

painted white, and inside the Virgin of Guadalupe, her arms

wide to embrace the sinners. It looked like there were pieces

of paper stuck inside too, and the votive candles were

holding them down. “Yeah, I’ll come. What do people put

inside?”

“Oh, lots of different things.” The Original stretched

back in his chair, his steak nearly gone. “Holy cards,

prayers, sometimes Mass cards, you know, those little cards

you get when somebody says a Mass for you. If it’s a

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descansas
, then maybe a little picture of the loved one, some

tiny memorial, like a hair ribbon, or a favorite toy.”

“So they’re memorials? To somebody who’s died?”

“Not all of them. Sometimes a village will put up a

shrine and everybody will use it. Jesse, are you thinking

about the shrine down close to Santa Elena Canyon?”

“Yeah, but I thought it would be a nice drive, go over to

the one outside Terlingua, down to Santa Elena, and there’s

a new one I saw toward Alpine. We can see lots of small ones

too. Granddad, I thought I would borrow your truck, let Mary

get a break from driving.”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll drive. You got a good camera?”

“You know it.”

I looked at The Original. “Sir, do you want to come?”

He waved this away. “No, you boys have a good time.

You want to pack a lunch before you go?”

Jesse shook his head. “Is that place still up and running

in Terlingua? The one where they’re cooking out of an old

Airstream?”

“I think so. But I haven’t been over there in a long time.”

“Terlingua is full of hippies and dopers and cowboys and

artists,” Jesse said. “But the Marathon hippies and cowboys

and artists are better. Because we don’t have any dopers.”

He was grinning when he said it, then something painful hit

behind his eyes, and he looked back down to his place.

When he looked back up, he aimed those blue eyes at his

grandfather. “Where is she?”

“Her mama’s driving her into Midlands to a clinic.”

“She left already? I didn’t get to talk to her.”

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“Jesse, don’t start, okay? Just trust me that this is for

the best.” We finished the steaks in silence. The Original

pushed his plate away, stood up. “Boys, I’m tired. I believe

I’m gonna turn in early.”

“I’ve got the dishes,” I said. Jesse stood up, and he

wrapped his arms around his granddad, held him and let his

head rest on the old man’s shoulder.

The Original patted him, stroked his silky hair. “Just

settle down, son. You’ve got work to do now. Don’t get off

track, you hear me? She knows we love her.”

After the old man went down the hall to his room, Jesse

leaned against the sink, picked up a cup towel. “I’ll dry.”

I studied him, held a soapy plate in hot water for the

rinse. He had gray smudges under his eyes, and there were

some fine lines around his mouth. “You look tired, Jesse.”

“Yeah, I am. And I don’t want to start work tired. It’s

always a bad sign.”

“We can take a day off, don’t you think? Though I

haven’t done much work since I got here. I feel like all I’ve

done is sit on the porch or lay on the couch. I’m used to

being a lot busier.”

“Artist’s work is mostly mental, and it can be pretty

exhausting. Sometimes it’s hard to turn it off. That’s how

you end up riding down Burnout Trail on a broken-down old

pony.”

I handed him another plate. “Riding down Burnout

Trail? You’re some cowboy.”

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I WOKE up early, took my run and a shower, pulled on some

jeans and another T-shirt. It was my last clean T-shirt. I

would have to ask The Original where the washer was. I was

sitting at the kitchen table with the old man, reading the

paper, when Jesse came strolling in. He was whistling “El

Paso,” that old Marty Robbins song. I put down the paper,

stared at him. He was wearing tobacco-brown jeans, so old

the denim was soft and faded at the seams, and polished

brown cowboy boots. His button-down shirt was silk, a

strange green, somewhere between teal and spruce. He had a

brown straw Stetson that he set down on the table. The shirt

gave his eyes a bit of green, and his hair curled around his

ears and down over the collar of that beautiful shirt. I think

my tongue was hanging down to the table.

“Sweet Jesus.” The Original stood up, brought the

coffeepot to the table. “Boy, what are you up to now?”

Jesse ran a finger down the nape of my neck. “You need

a hat, son.”

He smelled good, something green and lemony, and I

wondered if we were gonna get very far down the road before

I lost my cool and dragged him into the bushes. Oh, wait,

there were no bushes. We were in the desert. It was only

teddy-bear cactus and scorpions out there. We needed to get

an air mattress for the back of my truck. “Are we dressing

up?”

“Nope.” He sat down at the table. “You look just right in

jeans and a black T-shirt. You thought about getting a pair

of boots?”

“Not very hard.”

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“I’ll go with you. Make sure you get the right ones. I’ve

got a friend over in Lajitas, Gary. He makes handmade

boots.”

“I can’t afford anything expensive, Jesse. How about

let’s get me a straw hat at the General Store and let it go at

that.”

“You only need one pair for your whole life. When it’s

time, you just get them resoled.”

“Well, now, that’s true. A fine pair of boots is good for a

lifetime.” The Original joined the discussion, slid a cup of

coffee across the table to Jesse.

“When you’re a famous cartoonist, people will be

begging you to wear their handmade boots.” He stretched his

feet out. “Like these.”

They were gorgeous, beautifully classic handmade

boots, the brown leather rich and shiny with polish. Jesse

pulled up the edge of his jeans under the table so I could see

the shaft. A naked cowboy, from the back, a holster and six-

gun slung over his curvy butt. He shoved the cuff back

down.

“Nice.”

“I’ve got an idea for yours. Black crocodile, and smooth

leather on the vamp, with a pair of crossed six-guns. I’ve

already drawn it. You know that symbol, the rope and the

crossed six-guns the US Cavalry used to wear on their hats?

About the time they were rounding the Navajo up for the

Long Walk? I thought that might be a good symbol on a pair

of fine, shit-kicking boots for a USMC Navajo warrior.”

I grinned at him.

“Just look at them before you decide, okay?”

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“Yeah, okay. I’ll look at them. What happened to the

Bathtub Marys?”

“They’re on our way.”

We walked around the back of the house, where my

truck was parked, and I pulled him into my arms, buried my

face in his lemony neck. Just that fast, and my cock was

knocking hard at my Levi’s, wanting to be let out.

Jesse was laughing, but he slid his arms around my

waist, pressed close enough he could feel my cock. He

caught his breath. “You’re a raging bull in the morning? I’ll

have to remember that.”

“Did you dress up for me or your boyfriend the

bootmaker?”

Jesse gave me a slow grin, sharp as cold tequila,

unsnapped my Levi’s and filled his hand with my cock faster

than I could draw a breath. He squeezed, then gave a hard

stroke. He looked up into my eyes, his own a swirly mixture

of stormy blue and the green reflected from his shirt. “You

want to fuck me?” I could feel the breath choking off in my

throat. I couldn’t have spoken if my dick was on fire. Which

it felt like it was, actually. “It’s all for you, zo-zo. I’m gonna

spend all day keeping you on a slow boil. Then tomorrow we

can have a slumber party out in our own Paris on the Rio

Grande, okay?”

Speech was way beyond me, and he leaned over, pushed

my foreskin back, planted a slick little kiss on the head.

“Come on, Mary, let’s roll. We’ve got a lot to do before you

can lay me down.”

I wasn’t sure the couches were going to do the job. Up

against the wall, maybe, or on the floor, or…. I buttoned my

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jeans with some difficulty and climbed into the truck. Jesus.

I didn’t think I could keep up with him.

“Okay, where to first, cowboy?”

WE PULLED the truck off the road a couple miles out of town

toward Big Bend. The shrine was small, a glass and wooden

case painted white, and the picture of the Virgin inside had

been cut out of a magazine and glued to a piece of cardboard

stuck in the back. “These are the shrines that belong to the

poor people,” Jesse said, getting his camera ready. “They

probably get the most work, prayer-wise.” The inside of the

little box was filled with prayer cards, small pieces of paper

with handwritten prayers or wishes, some soaked by the

rain, the ink faded and the paper warped. There was a little

graduation picture taped to the Virgin’s robe, a pretty dark-

haired girl with her hair up and a string of pearls around her

neck. The ground surrounding the box had glass votive

candles and a tiny bunch of yellow plastic flowers, like

buttercups.

I got my camera out, took some pictures. We climbed

back in the truck, and Jesse pointed me south and west.

“This next one is something different.”

It was big, for one thing, the Virgin a plaster model

nestled inside an old, claw-foot bathtub half buried in the

ground. “This is why they call them Bathtub Marys?”

The votive candles were there, maybe ten pictures,

mostly of young boys and girls, and the prayer cards and

flowers. The Virgin was a beautiful model, with the

traditional pale blue robes draping her shoulders and

puddling at her bare feet. She had a beautiful, serene face,

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her eyes turned to heaven, while the worldly flotsam and

chaos fell away beneath her.

Jesse put his camera away. “Okay, the next one is over

near Terlingua. It’s the Hollywood hippie Virgin. That’s the

one I really want to see. It’s got this big wood structure,

painted bright pink and orange, cantaloupe orange, and it

has ruffles around the edges.”

“Ruffles? Are you shitting me?”

“Nope.”

“That’s your favorite?”

“It’s got a weirdly quirky charm, for a piece of American

kitsch. Like it needs to be on Route 66 with the Wigwam

Motel and the largest ice cream cone in America. I need to

reacquaint myself with the colors of Mexican folk art. I’m

going to use the colors of the Bathtub Marys for the

backgrounds of the cowboy angels. I just need to look at

them again, remind myself how the colors look under the

sun in the middle of the day. If I was a praying man? I would

pray to that sweet one we looked at first. She looks like she