The Sweet Spot (7 page)

She cruised the Internet, pricing semen from other PBR bulls. This was the risky side
of investment. A bull could be an amazing bucker but not pass that ability to the
next generation. Proven sires were few and far between, and their semen straws fetched
a pretty penny. Well, Mighty Mouse’s son had been a top futurity bull last year, and
that should count for something. She checked out Yosemite Sam’s straw price. He’d
retired a two-time Bull of the Year four years ago. The Mouse was his son, so… she
compared the price of a straw of Mighty Mouse’s semen to the market. It was too low.
She was sure of it.

Char went to their bucking bull website. How much should the price be? Too high, and
she’d price herself out of the market. But if the price was too low, the buyer would
assume that it wasn’t worth much. She learned, from sales at the mall, that you never
wanted a sweater as badly as the one the woman next to you picked up.

She increased the price by twenty-five percent and took most of the inventory off
the website. As she clicked “save,” she had a moment of self-doubt. Jimmy was going
to throw a fit.

“Well, tough titty. He can throw his own pity party.” Char tossed the pill back and
drained the glass. “The semen belongs to me.”

JB dropped the nurse’s resume on the kitchen table and looked around the apartment.
If this was a normal day, he’d be out feeding cattle. Pulling the phone from the pocket
of his shirt, he dialed Char’s cell.

It rang and rang. Before it switched to voice mail, he hit speed dial for the house.

“Denny Bucking Bulls.” She sounded out of breath, sharp, and professional. “Hello?”

“I tried your cell, but you left it plugged in the charger in the bathroom again,
didn’t you?”

“Listen, Jimmy. If you’ve called to lecture me, you’ll have to call back later. I’ve
got a million things to do.” He heard the rustle as she moved the phone to the other
shoulder. “No, Daddy, it’s not Junior, it’s JB.”

His ex-father-in-law’s gravel voice barked, “Hurry up and get home, son.” Char covered
the mouthpiece.

JB closed his eyes and rubbed them. The old man’s voice took him back to the days
when he’d call from the road after a long day. He’d stand in some diner somewhere,
picturing the cozy kitchen, Ben helping Benje do homework at the table, Char cooking
something on the stove. It had only been a year, but it seemed he lived in some alternate
universe now.

The hitch in Little Bit’s voice told him she remembered too. “What do you need, Jimmy?”

“Char, let me bring the bulls home from the vet. You have a hard time driving the
Peterbilt. Who’s going to spot for you?”

“Don’t you dare.” The steel was back in her voice. “I’ve got it under control. Don’t
worry yourself about that.”

“But Char, you can’t—”

“Oh yes, I can. Just watch me.”
Click.

JB hung up and leaned back in the chair, sipping coffee, trying to ignore the pang
of nostalgia. He’d never had much family. After Gramps died his senior year, Grams
went downhill, suffering a massive stroke less than a year later. He wouldn’t leave
his dog in the nursing homes that would accept her Medicare. So he’d sold the farm,
using
the proceeds to place her in the best facility in three counties. Though he wasn’t
sure she was aware of him, he’d visited her several times a week, on his way home
from work.

Char’s family sustained him through those hard times. They took him in as their own,
her mom having him over for dinner most nights. Char’s dad had quietly mentored him,
teaching him something he’d shown a knack for: training young bulls.

Char had wanted to get married right after graduation, but JB wanted a nest egg first,
to convince himself as well as her family that he could provide for her. He took on
a second job, working at Junior’s feedlot. He hadn’t slept much, but he was young
and proud to be building for their future.

When Grams passed away two years after the stroke, there wasn’t a lot of money left,
but he’d added his savings to it and went to Ben, asking for two things: his daughter’s
hand in marriage and a partnership in the business.

Now Char’s friends acted like he was diseased, crossing the street to avoid him. He’d
lost his son. His actions afterward cost him the only family he had left.

He stared at the apartment furnishings: the butt-sprung sofa, scarred coffee table,
and two-by-four-and-cinder-block bookshelves. He took up most of the tiny kitchen,
leaving scant room for the two-person table. Now he couldn’t even afford this.

He stood and dumped the rest of his coffee in the sink.
Crap, I haven’t moved on. I regressed. No real home, and for the first time in twenty
years, I’m out of a full-time job.
He rinsed the cup and set it on the drain board.

The expenses would pile up even quicker now. He had to find something else. Maybe
Junior would give him his old job at the feedlot. He lifted his jacket from the back
of the chair and shrugged it on. It wouldn’t hurt to ask.

C
har practically threw the enchiladas in the oven. Grabbing a dust rag from under the
sink, she listened to the clock in her head tick the seconds away.

The chores outside had taken longer than she’d planned. A cow had calved, and she
had to saddle Pork Chop and herd the pair to the adjacent pasture, to keep the valuable
calf from getting trampled in the crowd. She longed for the spare cash to buy a four-wheeler.
It would be faster, and less… intimidating.

Now she smelled like a horse, the house wasn’t fit for company, and she was afraid
to even peek in a mirror.
Maybe just a half a pill. That’s all I need.
She hurried to the living room to get away from the orange plastic bottle on the
sill.

She viewed the room with an outsider’s eye as she snapped the rag over the furniture.
Her gaze was drawn
to the window and Mother’s drab brown damask curtains. Ice trickled into her stomach
and formed at the edges, like a pond in winter.
They still need to be replaced.
She saw herself pulling them down, the sewing machine perched on the coffee table.
Her brain cut the memory midscene, like an old projector when the film strip snapped
in two. She wrapped her arms around her midsection, to warm the block of ice there.
Her eyes skittered away.

Was that a cobweb in the corner? She snatched a vase of dead flowers from the table
in front of the window. She trotted to the kitchen, threw the flowers in the trash,
dropped the vase in the dishwasher, then sprinted to the bedroom.

Standing in front of the closet after a spit bath and a gruesome encounter with the
mirror, she chose an oversize button-down poplin shirt with pastel flowers that matched
the periwinkle shell she tucked into her jeans.

Junior had picked her father up early this morning for a trip to Luckenbach, to look
at a lot of cattle for an upcoming auction. They wouldn’t return for hours.

When the oven buzzer went off, she jogged to the kitchen. She tossed on her apron
and used the oven mitts to remove the bubbling dish, setting it on her mother’s iron
trivets.

The doorbell rang.

“Dang.” She remembered that cobweb in the living room as she bustled to the front
door. She unlocked it and pulled. Nothing. Using both hands, she braced a foot against
the jam and tugged. The door didn’t budge. It had swelled shut with the humidity…
again. Jimmy never had taken the time to fix it.

She shouted through the door, “Bella, come around
back.” On her way through the kitchen, she straightened a placemat on the dining room
table.

Out of breath, she opened the back door. Bella stood on the back stoop in what Char
supposed was, for her, casual clothes. Skintight jeans tucked into black stiletto
boots, a fitted black suede vest with gold studs over a frilly plunging blouse with
puffy sleeves.

She’d taken it easy on the makeup today as well. With an understated glossy lipstick
and natural-toned eye shadow, her skin appeared delicate porcelain rather than a pallid
death mask. The black riot of curls still overwhelmed her small, pointed face, but
the huge gold hoop gypsy earrings were the right touch: exotic-foreign rather than
Night of the Living Dead
foreign.

“Well, do I pass inspection? Or do I need a password?”

“Oh, I beg your pardon.” Char flushed to the roots of her hair. “Come in!” She led
her through the mudroom into the kitchen. “Please excuse my messy house. I’ve been
in the pasture all morning, and I didn’t get the chance to… what?”

Bella stood in the middle of the kitchen, sniffing and looking around. “You’re kidding,
right?” She surveyed Char from head to foot.

Char frowned and cocked her head.

“I didn’t know anyone still wore an apron. And what is that heavenly smell?”

“Enchiladas.” Char looked at the frilly gingham that had been her mother’s favorite.
“What’s wrong with an apron? It keeps my clothes clean.”

Bella inspected the flowered placemats and dark green ceramic plates. “You set a mean
table, East Texas. Show me the rest of the house?”

“Sure.” Char led the way through the living room with pine floors, comfortable overstuffed
couches, and rag rugs she’d braided herself. The oversized stone fireplace took up
one wall. The tall hearth with tapestry cushions made a great place to enjoy a fire
on cold winter days. She hoped the cobweb would go unnoticed.

As they retraced their steps, Bella lingered at the family photos in what Char had
always called the Rogue’s Gallery to tease her mother. “Six generations of Enwrights.
A bit much, huh?”

Bella squinted at a hundred-year-old studio photo of a unsmiling couple, the woman
seated, man standing behind her, hand on his pistol. “This guy looks like a bandit.”

Char chuckled. “Rumor is that Great-Great Uncle Pete was a horse thief.”

“Oh, cool.” Bella faced her with a smile. “My uncle was in the mob.”

Char gulped. “Yes. Well…” She moved on to the office, Daddy’s bedroom, and the master
bedroom, before leading Bella back to the kitchen, turning her head from the last
closed door in the hall.

Bella pulled one of the barstools from under the kitchen counter and sat, while Char
heated oil in a small cast iron frying pan to heat the tortillas.

“This is a great house, Char.” She dipped a black corn chip in the homemade salsa
Char pushed across the counter.

“Thanks, but I can’t take the credit. I grew up in this house. Mom did most of the
decorating.”

“Where is your mom?” Bella said around a mouthful of chip.

Char snagged a tortilla with her tongs and dropped it in the hot oil. “She died a
year after Jimmy and I married. We were living in an apartment on the other side of
town. Daddy hated living alone and asked us to move in within a couple of months.”

“Did that seem weird to you?”

Remembering, Char absently flipped the tortilla, watching to be sure it didn’t spatter.
“It was a mixed blessing. On one hand, it made me miss my mom more. I felt for the
longest time that I’d turn a corner and see her. Especially here, in the kitchen.

“On the other hand, I was glad to come home. It was fun, in the beginning, setting
up a new home for Jimmy and me at the apartment. But after a while, it was hard to
find enough to fill my days.”

“You didn’t work?’ Bella looked at her like an entomologist studies a new species
of bug. “Damn, I thought June Cleaver died. Or at least retired.”

“Why is it, in this modern age, when women are free to choose any career, I get grief
for wanting to be a housewife?” Char bit back an apology for her snippy tone and dropped
another warm tortilla to the pile in the ceramic container and replaced the lid.

“Old bruise, huh?” Bella picked up the bowl of chips and salsa and carried them to
the table.

“A bit. Girls in high school were the worst. They thought I was crazy for not wanting
to go to college.” She took the tortilla cache to the table and returned for the enchilada
platter. “All I wanted since I was little was to have a home of my own to take care
of, a husband, and lots of kids. What good is liberation if I don’t get to do what
I want?”

“Hey, I think you should do what makes you tingle, Honey.” Bella carried the small
crock of refried beans to the table, then sat across from Char. “Besides, you’re good
at it. Your house is one of those places where people feel at home the minute they
walk in, you know?” She scanned the mother lode on the table. “And if this is as good
as it smells, your name changes to Betty Crocker anyway.”

Char shot her a mock stern look before bowing her head briefly over her plate, then
pulled the red checked cloth napkin from beside her plate and set it in her lap. “I’d
rather be Charla Rae Denny, thanks all the same.”

Bella dug in. When the first forkful hit her mouth, she closed her eyes and moaned.
“This is fabulous.”

Char colored. “It’s not even homemade. I had to use chicken strips and canned enchilada
sauce. I haven’t had the time—”

Bella chewed a tortilla. “Oh, bull. These are from scratch. I’ve never eaten a homemade
tortilla, and even
I
know that.”

Char snorted. “Well, of course. My mother’s spirit wouldn’t let me through the door
with a store-bought tortilla.”

Bella ate small bites with relish.

Char lifted a forkful of enchilada and chewed.
Mediocre. It’s better with Mom’s sauce.

“What did you want to be when you grew up, Bella?”

“Thin.” She spoke quickly, her sharp tone revealing an exposed nerve. She nibbled
at a tortilla but couldn’t quite avoid Char’s look.

Char raised an eyebrow.

Bella put down her fork and, lifting her arm, skimmed
her sleeve up to the shoulder. A fine pencil line of white scar tissue ran along the
underside, armpit to elbow.