One Came Home (5 page)

While I squirreled away provisions for my departure two days hence, I behaved in an unbearable manner. If caught in the same vicinity as Ma and Grandfather Bolte, I avoided their glances, wouldn’t speak unless spoken to, and did my chores like someone who’d been shorted pay.

Ma’s grief, in particular, wore on me like sandpaper. She dragged her sorrow room to room, and I found out that viciousness nested inside me. When I saw receipts left in the till, or noted that Ma had forgotten to mark down a sale, I mentioned it. I became a fault-finding expert: bins missing their lids, eggs gone bad, a customer left unattended, a boy in a fancy blue serge suit with a fist in the penny candy. I knew I shouldn’t do it, but the part of me that was unredeemed spoke.

Ma gave me jobs like retrieving the canned delicacies from the cellar: fancy tins of tangerines, olives, smoked herring, Japanese green tea, lobster, and the like. I was to remove the dented ones (setting them aside for Ma to inspect) and polish up the rest. I was to do this on the back stoop—a place she wasn’t likely to be.

Fine
, I thought.
I can do without you too
.

I might be nasty as a snake, but I would observe decorum.

On Saturday night, I slipped between the sheets, curled into a ball, and, once again, feigned sleep.

As usual, I heard a fist rap quietly, and then the door haltingly creaked open. I heard the hush, hush, hush of dress fabric and the knock of shoes on floorboards. The bed sagged as Ma sat.

Callused fingertips pushed hair from my forehead.

“You’re tired,” Ma murmured. “So am I.” I felt a puff of breath on my face, and then she kissed me good night.

How she persisted in her kindness when I could not stand the sight of her I do not know. I felt a flash of shame, not only because of my behavior over the past few days, but because beginning tomorrow morning, she would not find me.

Ma pushed herself off the bed as if she lacked strength. Her dress hushed. The door clicked close. I heard her footsteps grow quieter as she walked down the hallway. It was that sound, the sound of her footsteps, that echoed in my thoughts long after she’d shut the door to her room.

*  *  *

By eleven o’clock, I’d finished dressing and had written my note. I reread it:

I put that note in the center of the desk.

Then I went to get the Springfield. I’d had some luck with the rifle—Grandfather Bolte had cleaned it. He’d spent hours working on the barrel so that it would shoot straight. He usually did this kind of maintenance once a year, sometime in the winter. But since the funeral, Grandfather Bolte had busied himself with all sorts of odd jobs: oiling hinges, tightening the screws on shelf brackets, soaping the big plate glass window out front, and, evidently, cleaning the guns. On Friday, Grandfather Bolte handed me the newly cleaned Springfield. “That’s a good rifle. You, Georgie, have got the touch for it. You’re as good a shot as I’ve ever seen.”

Even though I’d been angry at him, pleasure swelled inside me.

He gave my arm a little squeeze. “We’ll have to go hunting soon. Would you like that?”

“Yes,” I said. I smiled for the first time in days.

“Good girl. Bring it up to the gun rack, won’t you?” he said.

I thought of this luck as I tied a rope around the Springfield and lowered it out the bedroom window. After it landed, I followed by climbing down the tree. I got the knapsack I’d stashed under some bushes and walked up the hill to Mount Zion Cemetery. At the cemetery, I sat with my back against the knapsack and waited for Billy and my paid-for horse with all the amenities.

An hour later, I heard horse hooves. I stood up. Billy was late, but all I could think was
My horse!
My heart pattered like it was Christmas.

I do not highly regard girls who get lathered up over horses:
Oooooh, cinnamon! I love a cinnamon-colored horse!
When an admired boy is riding atop an admired horse, it is a scene of such ridiculousness that it scarcely bears commenting upon. Yet here I was with sugarplum horses prancing in my head. I remembered a palomino mare (all gold and cream) in the McCabe pasture, and I somehow got the idea that Billy had tethered her behind Storm. This palomino was clip-clopping her way to her rightful owner—me.

Billy’s cowboy hat appeared over the edge of the hill first. Then came his head, his shoulders. He was astride Storm. Even in the dark, you couldn’t miss Storm—there wasn’t another horse that set a hoof down with Storm’s flair.

But where was my horse? My heart took a dip. I heard another horse, but I couldn’t see it, and no one could hide a horse as large as that butter-colored palomino.

I leaned this way and that to see. When I couldn’t, I ran around Billy’s horse to get a decent look and saw … long ears. Extremely lengthy, awkward, and shaggy ears.

I watched the animal rest its blunt head on Storm’s behind. Storm nipped at it, and in return, this animal brayed. “Bray” is much too short a word for the twelve-octave sound expelled from the creature’s maw. It was part snort and part sneeze, all working up to a finale that can only be described as virtuoso-quality cow flatulence. I’d never heard such an utterance in all my life.

“What is that?” Those were the first words I said to Billy that night.

“A five-dollar horse,” he said, smiling like he’d been looking forward to this moment for an eternity. “But I can’t sell him to you. He’s too valuable. So I’m loaning him. Isn’t that what you wanted—the loan of a horse?”

“That,” I said, pointing, “is not a horse.”

“Why, yes, he is. Frederick here is half horse.”

“And half donkey! I know what a
mule
is. A
mule
isn’t what I
purchased
,” I said. The darkness masked a lot of its
mulish traits, but there is no getting around ample ears and the sturdiness of a mule’s frame.

I eyed Billy atop Storm. In daylight, Storm looked fresh and crisp, as if she had stepped out of a mist that had left gray water marks on her white hide. I imagined riding this here beast of burden. My heart dove for my shoes.

Let me be clear: I do not like tricks or the people that play them. Ordinarily, I do not put up with it. But I knew Billy had me over a barrel. I needed to leave. And this mule—though with ears big as angel wings—came with tack, saddlebags, and even a holster for my rifle. It was transportation of a humble variety. If I could stomach the “humble,” I’d be all set.

“You can go. You’ve done your bit,” I said. I jerked my head in the direction of town.

“Don’t you want your five dollars? I’m
loaning
Frederick,” Billy said. That twinkle! Rude behavior through and through.

I put my hand out. “Better be my gold Bechtlers,” I said.

Billy got down off Storm and rummaged in a saddlebag until he found my cinch sack.

He held it over my hand and gave me a meaningful look. “You put this in a
safe
place,” he said.

I snapped my fingers and again opened my palm. Billy dropped the sack into my hand.

Yes, I made certain every one of those five Bechtlers lay snug inside.

“You sure are testy. I got you a ride and tack and you’re not paying a cent. I’d say a ‘Thank you, Billy’ is called for.”

I did feel a sting of contrition—infinitesimally small, but it existed. I could not deny that I now traveled with
more
money and on
free
transportation. My circumstances were improved. So I said it: “You did me a good turn. I appreciate it.”

Billy nodded and we got to work.

Yes, we. Billy didn’t leave right away. He seemed determined to help me load my supplies onto that mule, and I let him. I stuffed the knapsack into the bottom of a saddlebag, and slipped the Springfield into the holster. The holster was a perfect fit, which amazed me, given the length of the rifle. I knotted the sack holding my gold coins to a belt loop and tucked it inside my split skirt. And then we were done.

Billy walked over to Storm and mounted her. From the corner of my eye, I observed him, taking in all the details: reins in the hand that grabbed the saddle horn, one foot in the stirrup, and then hoist.

Doesn’t that sound easy? It looked easy too. Except for the fact that I could not hold the saddle horn and skewer the stirrup with a foot at the same time. First, the foot. I swung my left leg at the stirrup—repeatedly. But the mule kept stepping, skipping, and, once, jumping as my foot neared its target. Finally, by holding the reins, I managed to keep that animal still enough to bull’s-eye the stirrup.

Next? To get atop. Since a mile’s distance lay between my hand and the saddle horn, I scaled that mule like he was the tree outside my bedroom window, handhold to handhold. I put one hand on a leather strap and grabbed a brass ring with the other. I heaved myself forward, aiming for the middle but ending with the saddle’s stiff, upturned edge lodged in my gut. That brought water to my eyes, but I
was
on top. After some wiggling—and a few well-aimed kicks at stirrup holes—I found myself properly situated.

The mule did not appreciate my methodology. He skittered sideways, twisted his body around to see me, and finally brayed again.

That sound! A glance at Billy’s back confirmed he had heard it. His shoulders pumped up and down in silent mirth. He turned Storm around to face me, but when he tried to speak, all he could do was thump his chest and laugh until tears rolled down his face. After a minute, he managed: “What are you
doing
to my mule?”

I would not grace that question with a reply. I kept up a solemn dignity, pretending there was no commotion beneath me. “You’ve done your bit. Thank you. Now go,” I said.

Billy swallowed his amusement (which looked about the size of an orange). “You don’t have to do this, Fry. You can sleep in a bed tonight,” he said.

“Don’t you worry about me. Good-bye. Off you go,” I said.

The right side of Billy’s mouth lifted slightly. “Alrighty,” he said. He clicked his tongue, nudged Storm’s sides with his
heels, and started off. “Take care of yourself,” he called over his shoulder.

I watched him go, giving a dry chuckle seeing his Spencer repeating rifle hanging in his holster. That kind of gun fit Billy to a T. Repeaters are the guns of amateurs—those who want the appearance of skill. A single-shot, like my Springfield, could be loaded quickly enough if a person practiced, but Billy McCabe couldn’t be bothered with practicing. He had to have everything mechanized, and the Spencer held seven bullets in its buttstock, ready to fire. Of course, I’d shot a few repeaters now and again, but I preferred my single-shot.

Wait
, I thought.
Why did Billy bring a rifle? Does he usually bring his rifle when he makes deliveries?

I squinted and noticed a blanket rolled up behind Billy’s saddle. And:
Are those saddlebags?

Then Billy made a telling turn. He was not riding toward town, but heading to Miller Road.

Billy McCabe!
I thought.

I prodded the mule’s sides with my heels. Nothing happened. I pushed my heels into the mule’s gut. Nothing.

“Come on, mule!” I said.

I nudged three times, hard. The mule tripped forward, snort-sneezed, and stopped.

“What is it? You’re all conspiring against me? Move. Mosey. Get along.” I leaned over and whispered into one of its ample, three-foot-long ears: “If you don’t start walking, I swear I’ll cut you into steaks and serve you for supper.”

The ear pivoted and hit me in the nose. It felt like
velvet—finest quality velvet. Astonished, I touched it. The ear twitched away.

“What if I cook you with onions? Does that make a difference?” I said.

It did not. The mule refused to budge.

I exhaled, slumped in the saddle, and watched Billy, Storm, and that bedroll disappear from sight.

Then, without warning, the mule took off at a brisk trot.

I held on to the saddle horn for dear life. My knees bounced off the mule’s hide like a wooden Dancin’ Dan doll. That mule didn’t slow until we were directly behind Billy and Storm.

I took advantage of the proximity to yell: “You’re not invited.”

“Oh, I’m going,” he yelled back. I heard the little smile playing on his lips.

“Let me be clear: I am not the least bit fond of you. You do not want me as a companion.”

“You want to walk?”

“That’s immoral! We had an agreement,” I said.

“That’s right. And I did you one
better
—I
loaned
you that mule. If you take my mule, you get my company. Go right ahead and complain.” Billy gestured at an upcoming field.

I gasped for retorts that would send Billy flying back home. I hate to report that not one came to mind. Instead, the mule slowed and I found myself wordless and gazing at a horizon filled with Billy’s broad back.

This was a back arranged for veneration. Billy’s shoulder blades jostled under a cotton shirt at least one size too small, highlighting his muscles. Furthermore, the hair on his head curled in a way that can only be described as in need of a trim and prideful. And the hat? That hat was called the Texas Cowboy High Crown and was made of nutria-belly fur, which was cheap, cheap, cheap. I knew because we sold that hat at the store. And Billy was no cowboy—the McCabes only owned one cow.

Evidently, this impostor thought he was coming along with me.

Unfortunately, I was tired enough to find a bed of nails cozy. I needed sleep. I decided to let Billy fantasize for now. In the morning, I’d set him straight.

We went about a mile, and then Billy pulled Storm up short.