The True Father (12 page)

   Bella didn't show for our daily workout. I missed her and wished there was something I could do to remedy what had happened. I thought about driving to Poteau to see if she was at the hospital fitness center, but I figured she still needed some time to cool off, and since my mind hadn't changed about what I had to do, I doubted that hers had either.

   Jeremiah said he had some business to tend to in Fort Smith, but to meet him at the Spiro arena at three o'clock. So I decided to contact Denny Rose and we agreed to meet for breakfast.

   Other than being a rodeo announcer, Denny was also an auctioneer, and every Tuesday auctioned livestock at an auction barn near Sallisaw. The auction barn café was filled with breakfast-eating, coffee-drinking, cowboy hat-wearing cattlemen conversing business and pleasure over their meals. A haze of smoke from the kitchen griddle hovered above the tables and booths, and it carried a mixed scent of bacon, toasted bread, and from the looks of their plates, a variety of other fried meats.

   Denny stood from a booth near the back of the café and raised his hand, acknowledging me. He wore a light gray felt cowboy hat and long sleeved white western shirt with a bolo tie. When I arrived at the booth he introduced me to Junior Phelps, owner of the auction barn, who shook my hand, then quickly slammed down the last of his coffee and dismissed himself saying that he had to get to work. But he was polite and said that he admired my father very much.

   Denny motioned to the waitress to bring me a menu. A very thin young woman with sandy, shoulder length shag-cut hair came to our booth and handed me a two-sided black and white laminated card the size of a sheet of copy paper. It was badly dog-eared on the corners and the lamination was starting to separate. But it still served its purpose with the breakfast menu on one side and lunch and dinner on the other. As I read down the breakfast side, I nearly laughed at how simple and vague the list was. “One egg .99¢”, “Two eggs $1.50”, “Additional eggs .25¢ each”, and so on. Bacon, ham, or sausage were also available for an additional price, as were pancakes, waffles, oatmeal, and grits. On down the menu was “Omelet $1.99”. I asked the waitress what was in the omelet.

   “Scrambled egg,” she said as she chewed gum.

   “Just egg?”

   “No, there's other stuff too, but I couldn't tell ya what it was.”

   “It's good,” Denny said, grinning.

   “All right, I'll have it.”

   She scribbled something on a small order pad. “Would ya like anythang to drank?” she asked.

   “Just water, please.”

   “Oh, I wouldn't drank our water, hon.” She held her hand beside her mouth and whispered. “Gives everyone the shits.”

   “O-K. Then how about orange juice? Not made from your water, that is.”

   She smiled while she chewed, revealing a gold front tooth. “Sure thang, sweetie. Comin' right up.”

   I handed her back the menu and she walked away. I raised my eyebrows at Denny.

   “Nothing like being frank about matters,” I said.

   He laughed. “She's a good gal. Just lacks a little social polish, that's all.”

   I grabbed an extra napkin out of a chrome container and the waitress returned with my orange juice. “Hare ya go, hon. Straight from the store-bought jug.”

   “Thank you.”

   She winked and smacked her gum and flashed another gold-toothed smile. “Any time, sweetheart. My name's Eileen. Just holler if ya need anythang.”

   I nodded as she walked away, then cautiously, I took a sip from the glass. It tasted sweet and more like orange punch than real fresh-squeezed orange juice, but it was good, and I'm sure much better than the defiled alternative.

   “So how have you been, Trevor?” Denny asked. “Jeremiah treating you fair?”

   “He's a good guy.”

   “Yes, he is.”

   He took a sip of his coffee and licked his lips. “So what made you decide to come to Oklahoma?”

   “I never knew Jettie, and I figured it was now or never.”

   “Makes sense. Well Jettie was a good old boy, too. I never knew a better bull rider.”

   “I remember you saying that before. What was so good about him?”

   “Natural talent. Not everybody has what it takes to ride them big critters—you know, to have a natural feel for how they move.”

   “Then why wasn't he ever a champion?”

   “Beats me. But if I were to guess, I would say it was something psychological.”

   “What makes you say that?”

   “Well, even Jettie knew he had the talent, but when it came down to pressure, performing in front of the big crowd, he'd lose his concentration. Concentration is all in the mind.”

   “But you never understood what would make him lose it? The concentration, that is?”

   “No idea, pardner.”

   Eileen showed up with my order and set it in front of me. It was a white oval plate with a tasty looking omelet mixed with onions, tomatoes, green bell peppers and grated cheddar cheese melted on top.    She also stood a bottle of Mexican hot sauce beside the plate.

   “So how's it look?” she asked.

   “It looks very good,” I said.

   She kept standing with her hands on her hips and looking at me as I unwrapped my silverware from the paper napkin.

   “Is there something wrong?” I asked.

   “I'm just waiting for you to taste it.”

   “Oh.” I cut a small piece with my fork and put it in my mouth. “Mmm. It's superb.”

   She grinned and smacked her gum. “I told 'em to cook it special good fer ya.”

   “Thank you, Eileen. I appreciate it.”

   “Shore thang, handsome.”

   She eyeballed me as she walked away. I widened my eyes at Denny.

   “You're gonna have to help me sneak out of here.”

   “Ah, she's harmless. Flirts with all the young fellers.”

   I poured a dab of hot sauce on the omelet then took another bite.

   Denny took a drink of his coffee. “Have you talked to Bella much?”

   This question frightened me a little. “Why?”

   “She might have the answer you're looking for.” 

   “Bella doesn't know,” I said, still chewing. “I'm not sure anyone knows.”

   “Hell, Jettie may not have even known. It may entirely be a mystery. All I can say is that he had us going for so many years. One year he was predicted by all the experts and critics to go all the way. But at the NFR he flopped, and we all had our hopes so high.”

   “Did he think he was going to be the champ?”

   “Oh, he pretty much ignored all the hype. I'm sure deep down he wanted to be, but I know just the idea of it scared the hell out of him.”

   As I chewed on another bite of omelet I tried to absorb all that Denny had told me. Everyone informed me that he knew Jettie about as good as anyone, but even he was clueless as to what held the man back. And I wasn't sure the answer, if I knew it, would even help me. And like Denny said, it may always remain a mystery, and we'd have to learn to live without knowing.

   “You may think I'm crazy,” I said.

   “Why's that, son?”

   “I'm going to ride a bull.”

   “You? Why?”

   “Not just any bull. I'm going to ride Cyclone.”

   “Boy, that's nuts. What's the point?”

   “I'm not sure I can explain it. It's just something I feel like I need to do.”

   “Jeremiah know about this?”

   “He doesn't like it, but he's agreed to help train me.”

   “So when is the big event?”

   “Don't know. Whenever I'm ready.”

   “Well, boy, be careful. Cyclone is a tough young bull and there's hardly a bull rider out there who has what it takes to stay on him.”

   “I'll do my best.”

   “I'm sure you will, son.”

   I took the last bite of the omelet, shoved the plate forward and wiped my lips with the napkin.

   “One other thing,” I said. “Can you think of anyone else that might know what troubled Jettie?”

   Denny pushed back his hat, looked down at the table and blew out a large breath of air. “That's a tough one. But you know, you might give Buddy Wells a holler. He worked with your pa a lot in the arena, as a clown. It's a long shot, but he might know something.”

   Eileen brought the check and laid it on the table, but Denny grabbed it quickly before I had a chance.

   He winked. “This one's on me, pardner.”

   “Thanks.”

   “Anytime, son. And if you ever need anything, you just give old Denny Rose a holler, you here?”

   “I will.”

   Eileen smiled and stared at me as I left the booth, and Denny left her a couple of one-dollar bills as a tip.

   “Y'all come back, now,” she said, then pinched me on the back of my thigh. “Especially you, sweet britches.”

   Jeremiah reached inside a large brown cardboard box and pulled out a folded bundle of leather then tossed it to me.

   “What's this?”

   “Chaps,” he said. “You'll need to wear them.”

   I unfolded them and let them hang down in front of me. Unlike the handsome and brilliant design I had seen before, these were two, scuffed and worn, long strips of brown cowhide connected by a belt of the same type of leather that went around my waist. They more than covered the front of my legs and fastened on the back with several smaller belts. 

Jeremiah explained to me that historically chaps were designed and worn by Mexican vaqueros (Spanish for “cowboys”) to protect their legs from thorns and cactus needles. “Now days,” he said, “chaps are a lot for show, usually custom-made, very fancy and expensive. But they do offer good protection for your legs.”

   “These don't look fancy,” I said.

   “That's because they're a real workingman's chaps, and they belonged to your pa.”

   I studied them closely, and like everything else that had belonged to Jettie—his truck, house, clothing—the chaps were simple and practical. I wouldn't have wanted them any other way.

   Jeremiah reached again into the cardboard box and pulled out a black vest, also like what I had seen the cowboys wear at Hugo, and then he handed me a pair of chrome spurs. He showed how to fit the spurs over the heels of my boots, then secure them with miniature belts that wrapped around the front and buckled on one end. These, I had already learned, had a specific use in bull riding, and whichever bull was drawn was the deciding factor on how much they'd be used.

   The vest went on like any other and zipped at the front. Jeremiah explained to me how the vest was now mandatory, and that at one time bull riders never wore them. He told me the story of Lane Frost, and how a bull rammed its horn into his ribcage and forced a broken rib into his heart, killing him. “This vest might have saved his life,” Jeremiah said.

   The thought of a force so powerful helped me realize just how dangerous these bulls really were. All I wore was a long sleeved western shirt, a red plaid from Jettie's wardrobe, which fit in with the profession but nothing to protect any vital organs. Regardless, I held my composure, and the fatal image did nothing to change my mind.

   He went on to tell me that the spurs belonged to Jettie, too, but that he never wore a vest.

   “Why not?”

   “Because when Jettie performed they never thought of wearing such a thing. Not that the idea didn't float around, but somebody had to get killed before it was taken seriously and a cowboy didn't think he was yellow for wearing one.”

   “If this wasn't Jettie's, then where did you get it?”

   “I borrowed it.”

   “Well, I really don't want to wear it.”

   “Well, you're going to.”

   “Jeremiah, if Jettie didn't wear one, then I'm not going to.”

   “Boy, I think you hit your head on something besides the mat when you fell off that mechanical bull.”

   “Please, just respect my wishes on this.”

   “I've been respecting a lot of your damn wishes lately!”

   He walked away stern faced and angry, stopped at the back of the trailer, flipped a long steel lever and swung open the tailgate. 

   The young bull, a yellowish Charbray called Big Banana, seemed overly anxious about the situation. It snorted, the trailer shook as it ran; its hooves beat against the steel floor like large mallets hitting a gong. It darted out into the pen, lowered its head, snorted again and blew a cloud of dust under its chin. Jeremiah climbed over the gate and walked into the pen. The bull looked at him, dug a front hoof into the soil and drug it underneath its brawny shoulders. But Jeremiah quickly opened the gate to the chute, walked around the bull, waved his arms and coerced the animal inside.

   I noticed two other young cowboys out in the arena.

   “Who are they?” I asked.

   “Just a couple local boys. They are going to help save your ass after you get bucked off.”

   “Oh, like the clowns do.”

   “That's right.”

   I studied Jeremiah's face. He appeared upset or concerned, more than he did angry.

   “You don't have much confidence in me do you?”

   “My confidence don't mean shit, boy. You're the one that needs that.”

   With all my gear on and ready, minus the vest, I climbed up on the chute fence and looked down on Big Banana's back. By the way the muscles on his shoulders and rump flexed and twitched, I knew he was wound up over the circumstance and all that energy would eventually be released—with me on his back.

   Jeremiah draped two devices over the fence; one a long strip of fleece with thick rope on each end, and the other looked like a flat rope with a handle plaited on with strips of leather, and a large bell was also attached midway. He looped the flat rope under the bull's chest and behind its front legs and the bell clanged. The bull jerked and snorted, not seeming to like the object or the noise.

   “Now this is the rigging,” Jeremiah said. “It's what you hold on to, and once you get on we'll tighten it up and get it to your liking. It shouldn't be too loose, and it shouldn't be too tight, neither.”

   “What's the bell for?”

   “Two things. Most important, it adds weight to the rigging which helps it fall loose when you're done riding, and that helps increase the odds that your hand doesn't get bound up.”

   “What's the other purpose?”

   “The sound of the bell annoys the bull and makes him buck harder.”

   “Wonderful.”

   He picked the fleece belt up off the fence. “This is the flank strap or what some call the piss-off belt. We wrap it around the bull's belly in front of his hind legs and it pisses him off.”

   As high-strung as the animal already seemed, I couldn't imagine that anything else needed to be done to upset him. Nevertheless, Jeremiah strapped on the belt and Big Banana bawled and kicked. I took a deep breath as he put the finishing touches on the piss-off belt and Big Banana tried to fight the whole situation by thumping his massive body against the chute fences and gate, bawling and throwing saliva from his mouth.

   “A bull rider has to know the bull before he rides,” Jeremiah said. “Big Banana is pretty predictable. He doesn't spin much. He kind of reminds a fella of a big bass that's just been hooked. He'll go straight out of the chute and flex his body to shake off the annoyance, like a hooked bass bends his body when he jumps out of the water. But being a bull, he bucks. So just remember: straight out, bend and buck.”

   “Do I need to Spur?”

   “Boy, you worry about staying on the bull first, then we'll talk about spurring later.”

   I stood on the fence rails above Big Banana and sat down on his back. Like the piss-off belt, he reacted to my position about the same.

   “Now remember,” Jeremiah said, “use your free hand for balance and don't touch the bull at all with that free hand. And stay forward, don't lean back. Understand?”

   I nodded.

   The leather glove on my left hand was longer than most, covering all of my wrist and a little of my forearm. Jeremiah helped wrap and tie a narrow strip of leather around my wrist, which he said will help ensure the glove stays on. Then he tightened the rigging while I grabbed the handle with my gloved hand and held on to the fence with my right. With my left palm facing up and under the handle, he laid the rigging rope across it and told me to close my fingers.

   “When you let go of the handle that will release the rigging and free your hand.”

   I nodded.

   “Any questions, cowboy?”

   I shook my head.

   “Nod when you're ready.”

   Jeremiah climbed down into the arena on the other side of the gate. I looked out at the cowboys in the arena. They were young, probably high school age, and they stood with their hands on their knees waiting for me to come out, but every so often said something to each other and laughed.

   I tried to focus, putting my mind on the reason for being here. So I thought about Jettie, his profession and his life, and immediately remembered the importance of staying on this bull.

   I looked at Jeremiah and nodded.

   He pulled the gate open and Big Banana darted out of the chute just like he had said, bell clanging and all. The sheer power beneath me was almost unfathomable, as if I sat inside a hurricane, everything around me a blur, but I knew that the real storm was below me and not around me. And it was nothing like the mechanical bull. Big Banana bucked, bent its body, and threw its hips left then right, no doubt trying to free itself from the three annoying objects: the bell, the piss-off belt, and me.

   Suddenly the bull made a move that tricked every sense of balance I had. It not only caught me off guard, but turned me almost 180 degrees and airborne. There was no time to predict a move, or for thoughts about how to land. There was just gravity and my body pounding into the dirt. Though I seemed to land on all fours, my right wrist caught most of my body weight and bent backward, and a sharp, burning pain traveled through the tendons of my forearm. I looked up and saw the young cowboys dodging the bull, then Jeremiah opened the gate to the stock pen and the bull quickly ran inside.

   I clutched my wrist against my abdomen as I stood and looked for my hat. Jeremiah and the two young cowboys came toward me. One of the cowboys found my hat and brought it to me. I was surprised to see Jeremiah smiling.

   “You did good,” he said, patting me on the back.

   “I did?”

   “Better than I thought you'd do.”

   “Nice ride,” one of the cowboys said as he reached to shake my hand. I tried but couldn't oblige him.

   “You hurt your wrist?” Jeremiah asked.

   “I landed on it.”

   “Let me see it.”

   I held out my arm, and though it was not sensitive to his touch, it was red and appeared to be swelling behind my hand.

   “We better have it checked out,” Jeremiah said.

   “It's that bad?”

   “Always best to get an x-ray to be sure.”

   He put my hat back on my head, then put his arm around my neck and laughed as we walked toward the gate.

   “Why are you so genial all the sudden?”

   “I just can't believe you stayed on Big Banana as long as you did.”

   “Did I make eight seconds?”

   “No, more like five.”

   “And that's good?”

   “You expect too much of yourself. That was a good ride for a greenhorn.”

   “Well I have to do better. Let's get him back in the chute.”

   “Oh no, that's enough for today. I'm going to take you to the hospital to have that arm looked at.”

   “Hospital? Jeremiah, I don't need—”

   “Trevor, don't argue with me. Besides, you've learned a valuable lesson today about bull riding.”

   “What lesson?”

   “The landing.”

   “Well it sure wasn't very smooth.”

   “They rarely are.”

   “What could I have done different?”

   “Probably nothing.”

   “Then how do I keep from getting hurt?”

   “That's the lesson. You don't.”