“You can’t know. You didn’t know this was coming, did you? Did you?” The anger was finding its way into her voice. She stroked her hair and pulled it behind her ear. “Will you talk to the doctors?”
“I’ve already talked to them.”
Gail stood and Michael stayed seated. “They say you’re coming home.”
Michael nodded. “I want to come home.”
“You conned them just like you conned me. Just like you con me every day. They like you, Michael. They think you’re smart and funny and …” She stopped and bit her lower lip. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Turned Out
Lawrence Miller didn’t balk at the draw. Balking wasn’t going to do much good. He heard the muffled comments and the sighs, but he ignored them. Kemp Hollis pushed his chin away from his body and spat tobacco juice into the dust.
“That’s a filthy habit,” Lawrence said and leaned back against the booth of the concession stand.
“Ain’t a habit.”
Lawrence looked at him.
“A habit is something you have to do,” Kemp said. “Chewing tobacco is something I want and choose to do.”
“All day long, every day?”
“Damn near.”
Lawrence thought again about the bull. “It’ll be a short son-of-a-bitchin’ ride at least.” He smiled briefly. “Strike you funny that I’m the only black man here and I draw the monster?”
Kemp shrugged. “Somebody had to pull him.”
Lawrence put a cigarette between his lips and stuck the pack of Old Golds back into his shirt pocket. He struck a match and held it in his cupped hand the way his uncle, who had been in the navy, taught him. “Ground’s hard as hell today.”
“Dry.” Kemp looked at Lawrence. “That ever get you down? I mean, being the only black person somewhere? I never been the only white person, except when I was alone.” Kemp laughed.
Lawrence shook his head, smiling.
Both nodded hello to a couple of passing men.
Kemp leaned out beyond the wall, watched the men walk out of earshot, and shook his head. “It’s not going to be the same without Phillips and his kid in the team roping. They didn’t ever win, but they was fun to watch.”
“That’s true enough.”
“Phillips took it hard.”
“Yeah, that was pretty tough.”
“Fool kid,” Kemp said and kicked the heel of his boot against the wall. He did it again. And again.
Lawrence watched the paint chips settle to the parched ground with each strike of the man’s foot. “You keep that up and she’s going to come out here and kick your ass.”
Kemp continued to bang the wall.
There was a blur at the back of the booth. Most of the water hit Lawrence, cold against his neck and down his shirt. He hopped away. Kemp laughed and moved off as well. Lawrence looked to find Connie Flitner standing there with a large empty paper cup turned mouth down in her hand.
“Jesus, Connie,” Lawrence said, pulling his shirt away from his chest. “That was cold.”
“Quit kicking the wall,” she said.
“Wasn’t me.”
“Quit kicking the wall.” She pointed at both of them, her eyes in a squint.
“Have a little pity for the man,” Kemp said. “He just drew the meanest, most ornery, ugly, and smelly bull in Wyoming. This man is going to ride Rank.”
Connie tossed a new look Lawrence’s way, licked, then bit her bottom lip, and crushed the paper cup in her hand. “You be careful, Lawrence Miller.” She turned and started away, stopped and looked back. “You hear me?” She went back into the concession stand.
“She’s sweet on you,” Kemp said, resuming his position against the wall.
“Did you see the way she looked at me?” Lawrence looked at the sky. “Like I’m already dead. And it’s a kinda pretty day. Ain’t right.”
“Make you nervous?”
“What?”
“You know, Connie, kinda liking you.”
Lawrence shook his head. “Should it?”
“I was just wondering.”
“Yeah, well.”
Kemp looked at the distant hills. “Relax. You’ve ridden bad bulls before. Don’t act like no baby in diapers, now. Killers, boy, killers. You’ve ridden killers. What about Prince? Remember him?”
Lawrence nodded.
“Rank ain’t no worse than Prince.”
Lawrence just looked at him. “Yeah, right. How come everybody’s looking at me like I’m as good as dead?”
“You’re just ugly,” Kemp said.
“True.”
They stepped around to the front of the concession stand and bought a couple of Dr. Peppers. Libby Flitner took their orders while her older sister put together burgers and hot dogs. The men then went to the fence and watched the calf roping. Willard Harvey had a calf lie down on him and he couldn’t get the animal back to its feet so he could drop it again and tie it. “Pretend it’s Lois,” Kemp shouted and a couple of cowboys down the fence laughed.
Lawrence looked down and heard the thud of the calf hitting the ground when Willard finally succeeded. The ground didn’t even want to give up dust, he thought, it was that hard, tight. It was supposed to be softer, should have been softer. His head hurt and the sun was beginning to bother his eyes, so he told Kemp he was going to find a place to take a nap.
Out in the parking lot, Lawrence smiled at a couple of girls too young to give him anything but trouble. He found his way to his pickup and stretched out in the bed. He closed his eyes against the bright sky, and pulled his hat down over his face, ignoring the grooves of the metal pressing into his back. He didn’t want to ride that bull. He was scared, really scared. He didn’t feel right and everybody knew it. He didn’t have a good reason to get on an animal like that. Hell, you didn’t ride in two-bit deals like that one for money. Maybe for some kind of stupid fun. Maybe for the attention of a woman, another stupid reason. He felt a bee land on his hand and he just lay still, hoping he wouldn’t get stung. He fell asleep, thinking that if the bee failed to sting him it would be out of pity.
His sleep was a sound one, complete with a dream that he couldn’t quite track down enough to enjoy or manipulate. He heard a voice coming from outside his head. It was the high-pitched whine of young Tim Giddy. Lawrence pushed his hat away from his face and felt the sunlight hit his lowered lids. He turned on his side and opened his eyes, finding the bed wall and a bit of rust he’d never seen.
“Wake up,” Tim said again.
“Wake up,” Lawrence muttered, trying to move away from the voice.
Tim reached a hand over and gave Lawrence’s shoulder a shake. “They’re about to start the bull riding. Kemp told me to come get you.”
“Okay.”
Tim Giddy left.
Lawrence sat up, then pulled himself out. He stretched and looked down at his boots, checking to see if he was steady. He gave himself a quick sobriety test, putting his feet toe-to-heel, closing his eyes, and tilting back his head. He was fine. He stretched again and cracked his knuckles.
He reached back into his truck, collected his gloves, and shoved them into his back pocket. He strolled past the bleachers and into a crowd of cowboys at the deck. Dust floated in the air. He was up third. He watched the first rider get thrown in short order. The man ran clear without a problem. The clowns just stood where they were and the bull ran across the ring and out. He didn’t see the second rider, but he heard the whooping and hollering and knew that the rider had stayed on for the full eight.
“Ready to boogie?” some wise guy asked, but Lawrence didn’t see who it was and didn’t care.
Lawrence held his eyes fixed on the bull’s head. The bull was so still, dead still. The animal’s side rose and fell slightly with steady, shallow breathing. Lawrence let himself down on the bull’s back. He heard Kemp’s voice somewhere far off asking him if he was all right, but he didn’t answer. He considered it a damn fool question. The big bull didn’t move even a tiny bit when Lawrence’s butt settled on him. The men working the chute became nervous and silent. Lawrence could feel the muscles of the animal between his legs and under the knuckles of his open hand working under the rope. The frozen stance of the bull prompted one cowboy to lean low and catch a glimpse at the bull’s eyes. The man came up shrugging.