“The cowboys play with the animals,” Maya said. “Do you remember how you played with those deer?” Max looked at her questioningly. “I’m not mad at you about that anymore,” she said. “You don’t know why you liked it — but you liked it. Well, the cowboys like riding horses. And bulls. It’s fun for them.”
The arena smelled powerfully of cow dung and something greasy like motor oil. Cold air gusted off the packed earth. Maya held Max’s hand tightly. A loud, grating bell went off and in past the bleachers she heard pounding hooves, the earth rippling slightly beneath her. The entire place — past the entry booth, a small hangar for the pancake breakfast, and beyond it, a partly covered arena surrounded by gym bleachers — vibrated with an air of unfamiliar ceremony. The ticket window held a potato-nosed ancient rubbing his hands in front of a space heater.
“Rodeo association is running a special for the last event of the season,” he said, showing them a mouth of false, sterling-white teeth. “Beautiful ladies get in for free. And future rodeo stars get in for free. So your total is zero.”
Maya huffed out a helpless smile.
The upper bleachers were empty, but the rows near the dirt were full, cameras bathing the astringent air with flashes of silver. She was reassured by the seeming indifference of the crowd to the storm gathering outside. A moan of bovine protest issued from somewhere in the arena, but it was halfhearted, the animal going through some ritual. The loud bell went off again, and now they could see. The lock slipped from the chute gate and the dirt was crowded by a blur of animals, the bell shrilling again before Maya could understand what had happened. The scoreboard said 3.0 seconds. A man was on the dirt — he wore a cowboy hat, a Western shirt with two frilled pockets at the chest, and sneakers — his arms around the neck of a collapsed steer, its eyes wide in stunned, peaceable terror. The cowboy let go, scrambled up on his feet, smiled shyly, and raised his arms toward the stands. “A tenth-second shy of venue record!” the announcer called out. Feet stomped the bleachers and cameras whirred.
She had to watch again — two gates opened, two horses emerged, and between them a steer. She couldn’t determine the purpose of the second rider, who veered away to allow the first to slide onto the animal and wrestle it to the ground until by some unknown metric the event was judged complete.
Maya looked over at Max. He was squinting down at the arena. “Doesn’t it hurt?” he said, meaning the steer.
“I don’t know, honey,” Maya said.
“I don’t like it,” Max said.
They stamped their feet in the cold. A fine film of dust settled over their jackets. The cold smell of hide and excrement mingled with the yeasty scent of pancakes being turned out in the main building. In a fenced-off area walled off from the chutes, the riders paced, or chatted, or rubbed their hands together in wild concentration. One was laid down on the dirt, his head on his saddle, and his cowboy hat over his eyes. Clean, unlined faces, a picture of vitality that did not translate to their bodies, which covered for injuries: they hobbled, waddled, and dragged. In the crow’s nest, the announcer God-blessed America, and took the crowd through two bars of “America the Beautiful.” “Ladies and gentlemen, this cowboy’s only pay this morning is your applause.” When a new event came up, he went through a careful explanation what was what — the rodeo was for experts and newcomers alike.
The events seemed organized by escalating violence. In the next, a horse rider cast a noose around the neck of a calf, the horse rearing up to keep it tight while the rider ran the length of the rope, slammed the calf on its side, and tied its feet up in the air. The sight felt lurid and Maya turned away. She found herself wishing that the animal would wriggle out and stomp the man who had thrown it to the ground. If Maya had never felt especially close to Max’s biological father, she had felt even less close to the animal that must have mangled his leg, even if it was responsible for a long process that ended in her acquisition of a son. But she felt a strong kinship with it now.
“Mama, let’s go,” Max said.
“Me too,” Maya said.
The ground cover had increased in the brief time they’d spent in the arena — the snow cracked underfoot. Northeast snow slicked up and slushed, slurping under the feet, but this was the snow of Kiev. Maya’s mother would finish her cigarette at the window and Maya her oatmeal at the table, they would take the rumbling elevator down, and crunch snow on the way to school for an endless fifteen minutes, a faint hint of smoke wreathing her mother’s speech.
Maya closed her eyes and breathed deeply, Max waiting patiently. When she opened them, she wished desperately to see her mother standing in front of her. Maya looked down at her son and said, “I need to go see my mother.” Did ships sail between continents any longer? No matter — she would go in the hold of a cargo freighter if she had to.
“Your grandmother,” Maya said. This grandmother Max barely knew. Maya experienced deeply the distance that her husband had been remarking on since the start of the trip, only he was measuring to New Jersey and she, now, much farther. His constant remarking on it had tuned it out in her mind, but now she understood very well what he was speaking about.
“I don’t remember the last time we built a snowman,” Maya said. “Come.”
Alex, who had remained at the wheel of the Escape, was summoned and asked to gather up snow, which he did with his feet, his hands in the pockets of his too-thin jacket, while Maya and Max sculpted. Soon, they each had three balls, round as ice-cream scoops. “You’re a natural, Maksik,” Maya said. Max clapped his gloves.
A passing elderly couple unlocked arms to insist on photographing the handsome family in front of their winter creation, and the South-Central Montana Rodeo Association scrapbook for the 2012 Last Gasp still holds, next to an image of Curtis Purnell riding the bull Fat Chance to the highest score of the day, an image of the Shulman-Rubins of Acrewood, New Jersey, next to a pair of snowmen.
“My feet are wet,” Alex said.
“Almost,” Maya said.
She knelt before the snowmen and in the belly of the first drew a large T, in the other an L. Alex, sunk in a sullen, sleep-deprived reverie, stared at Maya from the edge of the snow pile.
Max looked up at his mother. “What do the letters mean?”
“Max?” Maya said. “Your papa and I have something to tell you.”
Alex continued to watch his wife with a defeated hostility.
“Two things,” Maya said. “The first is that we love you very much. So, so much. You will always be our boy.”
“I know, silly goose,” Max said. He clapped his hands.
“Do you remember we were looking at a photo album at home once and you wanted to know why there were a hundred pictures of you at seven weeks but none from before?” Maya said. “And we said it was because cameras weren’t around yet, and we finally managed to get one when you got to be seven weeks?”
“I guess,” Max said cautiously.
“We weren’t telling the truth, honey,” Maya said. “Please don’t be upset with us. We want to tell you the truth. We want to tell you only the truth from now on.”
“Maya,” Alex whispered like a drugged person.
“The truth is that we are your second mommy and daddy,” Maya said. “Another mommy and daddy had you in their belly. Right where these letters are — it was you. But then, after you were born, they asked if your papa and I would take you. They really loved you but they couldn’t hold on to you — they were too young to take care of a baby. They loved you so much. And they wouldn’t give you away until they had found some people who they knew would love you even more.”
Max stared at her, trying to understand. “So I wasn’t in your belly?” he said, frowning.