A Feather in the Rain (8 page)

The polished brightness of twenty-four-hour fuel dispensing paraphernalia gleamed under the lights as he tended to the needs of the truck. He bought a bag of pretzels, a chocolate bar, a Coke, a coffee, and a ready-made sandwich purporting to be turkey.

He stopped at Dalhart to let the horses out and shut his eyes. A little after three in the morning, he pulled out of the rodeo grounds and aimed for Lubbock. He reached into the glove box and took out a small, antique leather box. Embossed in silver, its lid bore a
pastoral scene of lovers on a hillside near a castle. Jesse's mother, Francis, had told him it was her mother's, made in England. Now it was skimming over a Texas highway and carrying in it a pure white wing feather from a Texas angel. Jesse flipped the lid and set the box on the seat, took out the feather and held it up to his cheek. It was the softest, most delicate thing, lighter than a breeze and soft as a flower scent. He moved it slowly over his face to tickle above his eyes and under his nose. Then he drew it across his lips and put it back in the box.

Ragged chains of silent lightning ripped the dark dense night to the east. Dead ahead, a tall truck studded with colored lights like a dreadful giant Christmas tree loomed out of the darkness and rumbled by, shuddering Jesse's rig.

Eventually, day broke upon a smoking reach of rolling grassland with a long red sunrise pouring its syrup over the golden hills at the edge of the world. He thought how easy it would be to call Larry and get the Bassetts' phone number. He even let his hand touch the phone. Then what? Ask her if she misses you? Git a holt of yerself, boy. She ain't even on the same planet you are. Think about the colt, The Futurity. In a few hours, you'll have him under you.

B
lizzard and Dozer escorted the rig to its place near the barn. Abbie's hair was covered with a red pirate's bandanna tied tight under a green ball cap from Cullen's Feed Store. Beaming, she looked down at him from the horse she sat on. “Good afternoon, sir. What can I do for you?”

“Well, ma'am, how about a job?”

“Well, sir, the only job we have available is mucking stalls and hauling manure.”

“Fine. Just what I need. Some shit in my life.”

“Then you've come to the right place.”

“Don't I know it.”

The sorrel colt stood gleaming, burnished copper in the dusty sun shafts. He snuffled as Jesse placed his arm along his neck and stroked between his ears. He slipped off the halter, bridled him, and stepped into the saddle. He walked the colt off on a loose rein. The horse stretched his neck long and low then tossed his mane and his
spirit set his feet to dancing. Jesse just let him go. He broke into a trot, kicked his hind feet in the air, and shook his head as he moved into a canter. Abbie liked to watch Jesse's every move on a horse. He never seemed at odds with a horse, even a rank, uncooperative son of a bitch. She'd seen him ride plenty of them. He was constantly trying to let them know that he'd go along with them or at least meet them halfway, and that it really wasn't a big deal.

Jesse pushed ten head out of the herd and sat facing them, deciding which one he would cut as he allowed the rest to drift back to the bunch. A black and white Angus cross was face-to-face with Buckshot. The reins dangled loosely as Jesse squeezed his legs as a signal and the colt transformed into a brewing storm in hide and hair. He pinned his ears and all but spit in the cow's face. The cow made a quick move. The colt squatted and dove to counter. The cow moved again with more determination, but Buckshot was there splattered out, blowing in her face saying, “Now what?” It was the same with three more cows as Buckshot mirrored their every move, conquering them one by one. It was somewhere between a thought and a thing, an ephemeral display of magic and myth, man and beast as art. Abbie was giggling, “Man, if he ain't something.”

Jesse grinned. “He'd rather die than let a cow get past him.” He stepped down and loosened the cinches. He walked to the colt's head and slipped the bridle while flared nostrils gulped in air. He stood in front of the horse and softly placed his fingers between the horse's eyes and circled them lightly, whispering, “You're a good boy. Yes, sir, you are a good boy.”

Abbie watching wished he didn't see her as a kid, or worse, his daughter. Then she drove the thought away. She helped him carry his stuff from the truck into the house. Climbing the stone steps, she was talking back over her shoulder, “You gotta be dead. Three hours sleep. That's nuts. Couldn't wait to see me, huh?”

“That's right.”

He walked her back out to the porch. “Thanks for not burning the place down.” He put his arm around her and kissed the top of
her head. Magician-like, an envelope appeared in his hand before her eyes. He watched her smile as she took out the card, somehow sensing it should be opened with care. It contained three golden aspen leaves that looked as if they'd been hammered out of a thin foil of the precious metal. She handled them delicately and said, “All right.” She read the card, “Thanks for being so cool. Thanks for being my friend. With love, The Boss.” She looked up at him with a trace of moisture in her eyes. Then again like magic he produced a black velvet jewelry box and handed it to her. In wonder, she opened it to find a pair of gold earrings shaped as small aspen leaves. “Oh, man…whoa…These aren't the real things. These are the real things. Jesse, they're beautiful.” She flung her arms around his neck and pulled him down to kiss him on the lips. “Thank you. I don't know what to say.”

“Say goodnight and drive carefully.”

“Goodnight and drive carefully.” She was heading back to town for classes in the morning. “And I wanna hear about the trip. Did you meet a movie star?”

“Yeah. Lassie.” He watched her walk to the little VW bug and heard her yell back, “Thanks, Boss.” She started the car and led a rising plume of dust down the drive out to the road.

He leaned on the log railing and inhaled the distinctive aroma of the Texas twilight, dun grading into blue. A high wind soughed out of the west and bore to him the sound of owl-talk from behind the barn. He sat in a rough chair and hung his heels on the rail. Holly Marie, not again. Buckshot, The Futurity. Damien had sat on this porch with him. He'd fallen off hanging by his knees from the rail, long platinum hair swinging from his upside-down face. He was ten years old, sixteen years before he died. One cannot be dead until all the things he changed and touched are gone. As long as there are memories, even the plaintive ones, there is no death. It takes a long, long time for a human being to die.

H
er grandmother's Victorian bed was piled with white lacetrimmed pillows and a thick burgundy quilt. The sky through the window was moon-bright with a thousand eyes. Naked under the cool sheet, she pressed her hands prayer-like against her chest, her hair spread, pale strands of cold gold, her eyes open. In the flicker of candlelit shadows on the ceiling, she had gone from meditation to tracing a view of her life out of the shattered pieces of a fiery mosaic. Then that lonesome leather cowboy from another planet was grinning at her, giving rise to wonder and speculation. Her hand moved over her belly to the moist warmth between her legs.

For the first time in her life she lacked direction, goal or purpose other than to discover what lay ahead. She blew out the candle, rolled to her side, shoved a pillow between her pulled-up knees, and closed her eyes. Tomorrow, she thought, I will feel a horse against my thighs.

She was watching the dawn lighten the sky when she heard Bear
stirring and plumbing working. When he came down the stairs with his hair combed wet from the shower and the bottom half of a business suit on, she had the coffee going. She kissed him good morning. She fingered the starched shirt, “I guess you were planning on me feeding, huh?!”

His big grin, a little sheepish, “Would you? I'll cook some oatmeal.”

She looked fourteen, Huck Finn in faded bib overalls and scarred up hiking boots. “Kinda nice to have me around, isn't it?”

He put his arms around her with his chin in her hair and tearshine in his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered.

She slid open the barn door to the impatient shuffle and snuffle of horses anticipating feed. Bingo the goat sprang from the ground to the top of a fifty-gallon drum and danced a flamenco until Holly poured a portion of sweet feed on the lid which vanished like a teacup in a twister. She grained the horses and tossed flakes of hay. She unrolled a hose and filled the water buckets, then hauled it through a fence to the duck pond and let it run while she fed the ducks. She labored like a farmer, without a hint of the pampering she'd known.

Dance, a round-ribbed gray mare, was the gentlest and least intimidating of the three. She was soft-eyed, pretty-headed, and stood quietly while Holly groomed and saddled her. After weeks of idleness, an excess of energy pranced in her step anticipating a rider. Not without trepidation, Holly put her foot in the stirrup and eased lightly into the saddle.

She felt the mare's pent-up desire to uncork and spoke soothingly, asking her to be a good girl. She rode down the dirt road to a bridle path across the open pastures of neighboring property. Before long they both began to relax and come together. As she became aware of the distinct movement of the mare between her legs, she remembered Jesse saying that when you get good you'll know which of the horse's feet are leaving the ground and when, as if they were your own. Then you can place them where you want. She tried to
feel the left front foot. That leather cowboy who had never even been to New York, smelled a subway, or haggled with a Parisian landlady; she wondered what he was up to right then…in Texas.

There was the wind-borne scent of sage and flashes of magpies on fence posts strung with wire. She thought of her brother Brad and his vivid presence in anything she had ever enjoyed. How desperately she missed him.

She was walking back to the house when Ray Cooper's pickup turned into the drive. Ray was a cowboy, an artist, and a craftsman. He was building a little one-room house for Holly to have to herself. No plumbing, no kitchen, but it would have electricity. They called it the Holly House, the size of a bedsheet, off to the side of the main house. She told Ray how much she loved the little porch he was adding, a great place to watch sunsets.

An old brick warehouse housed a video editing company. Holly Marie sat in the near darkness punching keys and twisting dials, gazing intently at the monitors. She stopped the tape, rolled it back and started it again. It was Jesse talking to Daniel, the cystic fibrosis boy. The camera had crept in to a close-up on Jesse. His tenderness and compassion clear as he placed his hand on the spare shoulder of the boy struggling for breath. Holly's throat tightened as she spoke aloud to the empty room, “Look at that…it's beautiful.”

Later that evening, she showed it to Bear and Ruby. Each time Jesse appeared, they commented on his sincerity and how effective he was on camera. “Don't you think so, Holly?” Ruby asked.

“Yep.”

Bear said, “He's a natural.”

“He's very appealing. Don't you think so, Holly?” said Ruby.

“Yep…” and then almost to herself, said, “I didn't think he liked me very much at first.”

Ruby's hand paused midway between her mouth and the bowl of popcorn Holly had made for them. “Why do you say that?”

“He hardly ever looked at me. Whenever I was around, he ignored me or looked away or talked to Larry or something.”

Bear laughed.

“What's funny?”

“I think you just made him nervous.”

“How? What did I do? I couldn't have been nicer.”

Bear was still laughing. “He's a country boy. He's just shy, that's all. I wrote him a letter today to thank him for coming and all his help and everything. The tape is really great, Holly. You did a wonderful job. The CF people are going to be thrilled.” He put his arm around his daughter and hugged her. “I'm going to give him a call and ask him if he'll sign a release so we can use him on the tape for promotion and fund raising.”

Holly said, “When?”

“When, what?”

“When are you going to call him?”

“Oh, a day or two. I'll wait till he gets my letter. Why?”

“Nothing…” She shook her head and went to the fridge for a Coke.

H
e put on a jacket and walked out to the porch and into the chill of the thick November night. Dozer rubbed his leg and flopped at Jesse's feet as he leaned against the post and looked to the north. The sound, Holly Marie, came softly, as his voice tried to find the wind that would touch her hearing.

Abbie was warming up a horse while Jesse struggled with an eight-foot length of galvanized pipe, plumber's goop, and a couple of wrenches to repair a leaky water line to a row of stalls in the barn. Ricardo returned from the post office with a stack of mail, dropped it on a bench, and came to lend Jesse a hand.

Two hours later, Jesse flipped through the mail to the letter from Bear and opened it. For the rest of the day, he imagined Holly watching him work and wondered what she would think of his way of life. For more than twenty years, the only love he'd known was that which he shared with his son. He could count the times in all his life he'd heard the words, I love you. He thought about that and
what it would be like to hear, I love you, Jesse.