Blind Your Ponies (24 page)

Christmas Eve anointed Willow Creek with a windless snow. Large flakes danced their way to the windowsills of the Blue Willow Inn, where only upstairs lights denoted human gatherings. A string of colored bulbs outlining the large front windows illuminated the frosted bicycle built for two, enduring expectantly on the porch. The lone figure of a rider moved past the inn on a large Appaloosa, the snow collecting on his wide-brimmed hat. The horse snorted visibly and its hooves crunched a solitary cadence.

Peter and Grandma Chapman, in her bright red holiday dress and Reeboks, exchanged gifts around their tree. He fought off a darkness that accumulated daily with the dark of winter. Parrot perched in the evergreen and slung invectives at Tripod, who attempted to climb the spruce amid the tinsel, balls, and tangled strings of lights.

“That’s enough of that,” Grandma said. She swooped up the three-legged tomcat and put him out the back door.

“Go find a Christmas mouse stirring.”

Irene Strong, Peter’s mother, had planned to join her son and mother for several days over Christmas, but her work tied her up at the last minute and she couldn’t get a later reservation on any airline that serviced Bozeman. Pete and his grandma had shared their common disappointment, his much more painful than hers, and attempted to make the best of it, grilling steaks in the oven and improvising weird sizes and shapes of homemade potato chips.

“This sure beats chestnuts roasting by the fire,” Grandma said.

They competed for the most original or the most grotesque, and the only thing that put a stop to potato-chip creating was the rule that they had to eat their own handiwork. Grandma deep-fried a slice she said was Amos Flowers’s ear, and Pete cooked one dark that he claimed was a scab off Truly Osborn’s ass. They engorged several potatoes along with the
T-bones and drank three bottles of Martinelli’s apple-cranberry sparkling juice. Grandma had taped the skimpy newspaper clipping of their win on the refrigerator door.

“We won’t be able to find the food by the time the season’s over,” she said.

With Parrot mimicking an ornament on a high branch, they settled in the front room by the tree. Grandma handed Peter a brightly wrapped gift. He had received an expensive red ski jacket from his father, and on the phone his mother promised hers would be a little late but would be the best he’d ever had.

“Go ahead, open it, open it,” Grandma said.

Peter tore off the cheerful paper and opened the rectangular box.

“Wow, thanks, Grandma!” He pulled out a white high-top basketball shoe, the Reebok Twilight Zone Pump. “These really rock!”

“That’s only the half of it,” she said. “Those are
game
shoes. I got them for the whole team, all the same, so you don’t look like a bunch of scrubs out there.”

“How can you do that? These cost over a hundred dollars.”

“I won five hundred dollars playing bingo in Three Forks two weeks ago. Almost died wanting to tell you. The Athlete’s Foot in Bozeman sold me six for the price of five. Only hitch is Olaf’s fifteen triple ‘E’s haven’t come yet. Had to be special-ordered.”

“How did you know their sizes?” Pete asked, lacing his ten-and-a-halves on.

“Coach Pickett. He’s the only other person who knew, except Hazel. She was with me the day I won.”

“Thanks, Grandma,” Pete said, hopping in his Twilight Zone Pumps. He tried hard to look enthused and beat back his sadness, tried hard not to spoil Grandma’s joy, and knew he’d never wear the game shoes with his teammates. “They’re awesome.”

“They ought to be good for at least a couple extra buckets a game,” she said.

As he bounced on his toes he suddenly stopped and pressed his face against the window. From the back porch light he could see that a large German shepherd had Tripod cornered against the high wood fence and
the wall of the garage. Its fangs bared, its jaws snapped, and it waited for an opening to dismember the crippled cat. Tripod stood his ground, his lips curled, his teeth poised, his back hunched with hair standing on end, and he faced the ferocious canine eyeball to eyeball, holding at bay the beast that was trying to kill him while gentle snowflakes cascaded like unwrapped gifts from above.

“Tripod!” Pete shouted. “Some dog’s trying to kill him!”

Grandma looked out the window as Peter raced for the back door in his game shoes.

“Hairy old bitch,” Parrot squawked.

Pete fumbled the door open and grabbed a snow shovel from the doorless back entryway.

“Get outta here!” He threw the shovel like a javelin and nailed the large predator in the hind quarters.

The shepherd howled, then fled around the garage with its tail between its legs. Pete squatted beside the cat as he slowly moved out of his defensive stance. There was blood on its face. Pete lifted Tripod onto his lap and wiped the smear off his ear and cheek, revealing a small gash. When Peter stood and turned around, he found Elizabeth Chapman behind him with a double-barreled shotgun.

“Jeez, Grandma, where’d you get that?”

“Never saw that mutt before. Wonder where he came from?”

“He hurt Tripod,” Peter said, showing her the wound.

She regarded the cat’s head carefully for a moment.

“Another scar, that’s all. The world’s not safe for cripples even on Christmas Eve, never was. Merry Christmas.”

Tripod sprang out of Peter’s arms and beelined for the house. When they had locked the door behind them, Peter noticed a drop of blood on his game shoe.

Peter had spent most of the money his mother sent him on one special gift for his grandmother. He pulled it from where he had hidden it in the basement because he knew she would cheat and open it when he was away at practice. She hefted the large box in Christmas wrapping and shook it.

“Scuba gear?” she said.

“Open it, open it.”

When she tore off the wrapping and saw the printing on the box, she hooted.

“Oh, you sweetheart, you.”

She opened the box and lifted one of the Rollerblades high, purple and pink and black with pink fluorescent laces.

“I’ve wanted these ever since I saw a kid zooming around on them in Bozeman last year. Wait’ll Rip sees me flashing by the inn on these babies. Why, he’ll probably swallow his dentures.”

She laced them both on and tried them around the living room, swooping, careening, scaring the hell out of Tripod until the cat dove under the Christmas tree.

“Up your ass!” Parrot said.

“Whatta gas this will be come springtime,” Grandma said.

Then all four of them hushed at the solid knocking on the front door. Grandma skated to the door and swung it wide. Tom stood framed in the doorway, the rim of his black hat carrying an inch of downy snow. He regarded Grandma in her red holiday dress and Rollerblades and Peter in his new Pumps.

“Just going by, wanted to wish you a merry Christmas,” Tom said.

They could see his Appaloosa gelding tied to the faded picket fence.

“Why, land sakes, I thought it was old St. Nick. Come in, come in.” Grandma tottered on the Rollerblades and braced herself against the wall.

“Oh, no, I was just passing by.”

“You get on in here and help us eat some of this food,” Grandma said. Tom took off his hat and slapped it against his leg, dislodging the accumulated snow. He brushed the shoulders of his canvas duster and strode into the house, a bright red bull rag around his neck, a figure that could have been visiting on Christmas Eve a hundred and fifty years ago.

“Up your ass,” Parrot squawked, and Tripod stalked the overburdened tree as though he took the slanders personally.

She had bought a third T-bone and had thought to offer Peter more than one on this festive occasion, but the potato-chip gorging had all but left the third steak forgotten in the refrigerator. She had it grilling in the oven and
the deep-fat fryer heating well before Tom finished pulling off his duster and settled in the front room with Pete. While the food cooked, Grandma—still wobbling in her Rollerblades—brought the package marked with Tom’s name and set it in his lap.

“Santa stopped just before you. Did you see his tracks?”

Tom regarded the package for a moment, obviously puzzled over how Grandma Chapman came up with a present for him when she had no idea he was coming. He pulled the baling knife from his belt and sliced through the tape and paper. The sight of the pure white Pumps brought a tinge of joy to his gloomy features, and he pulled off a diamondback boot to try it on. Pete noticed he was wearing his precious boots when it was snowing. Something was up.

“You’re full of shit,” the green bird cackled from near the top of the tinsel-draped spruce.

“Same to you, birdbrain,” Tom said.

He pulled the other Twilight Zone on. Soon, she had him sitting at the table in front of a medium rare sixteen-ounce T-bone and a production line of homemade potato chips stringing from the deep fryer. In fact, when he finished the beef, he joined in concocting his own chips and destroying two more large potatoes.

“This is a rocky mountain oyster that got caught in the baler,” Tom said, getting into the swing of the game.

“What did your father do when he saw the barn?” Grandma asked.

“He’s really steamed, said I have to paint the whole damn barn if I want to keep living there.” Tom laughed. “That’ll be the day.” Then his expression turned grim. “He says he knows Pickett put us up to it. I told him he was wrong, but he doesn’t believe me.”

Grandma and Pete exchanged a glance that reflected their mutual fear of George Stonebreaker and fear for Coach Pickett.

T
HE BOYS WERE
shooting baskets with the sponge rubber ball and the miniature rim hanging above the hallway door when Grandma came from the kitchen.

“I haven’t missed a Christmas Eve service at United Methodist since your
grandfather died,” she said, no longer in her Rollerblades. “Don’t intend to start. Don’t matter if you’re Methodist or not, don’t matter what you are, something mighty peaceful about it. You boys coming with me?”

Tom glanced at Pete. Then he sat down and quickly unlaced his game shoes, tugging into his J. Chisholm diamondbacks. They slipped into their coats and, in the gently floating snow, walked the block toward the candlelit church.

“Your horse be all right?” Grandma asked.

“Yeah, sure. He’ll probably leave you a few Christmas apples.”

“Apples?” Pete asked.

“Horse shit, city boy, horse apples.” Tom laughed. “Where’d you get the cool jacket?”

“From Kathy.”

He glanced at Grandma in the wake of his fiction. She didn’t bat an eye. Then she noticed Tripod tagging along, making his intriguing unpaired track. She stopped and turned to Pete.

“Would you toss him in the house? I don’t want him burning down the church with the candles and all. We’ll wait.”

Pete scooped up the family shadow and trotted back to the house.

“You ought to bring Parrot,” Tom said.

With winter’s brush gradually coloring them, Grandma nudged Tom and spoke quietly. “Why aren’t you with your family tonight?”

“My dad told me to get the hell out.”

“Your father is a hard man. He must have a torture chamber of pain in him somewhere. Try not to take it personally.”

Tom regarded her in the sparkling, diffused light.

“The whole time I was growing up I was always afraid he’d kill me some day.”

“And now you’re growed up.”

“Now, I’m afraid
I’ll
kill him.”

“You can stay with us tonight,” she said as Pete returned. They crunched and squeaked through the snow to the church and joined the cluster of people filing into the modest cement church.

Grandma removed her snow-speckled felt hat as they entered the narthex.
Among the townspeople were Dean Cutter, his mother, and his sister, in a wheelchair. The boys nodded at Dean as Grandma squatted in front of the young girl.

“Hello, sweetheart. You look so nice tonight.”

The golden-haired girl cocked her slightly wobbling head, her eyes met Grandma, and her mouth formed a twisted smile that dangled a gleam of spittle. The boys shifted uncomfortably.

“Merry Christmas,” Grandma said, patting her hand.

In her colorful winter jacket, the girl made a muffled sound and nodded. Grandma leaned out of her crouch and wrapped her arms around the girl as others entered the church. Then Grandma stood and regarded Dean’s mother, the worn-down-looking woman in her worn-down winter coat.

“Merry Christmas,” Grandma said.

Sally Cutter forced a threadbare smile and nodded. Grandma stepped aside and Dean, with his mother following, pushed his sister down the aisle. Grandma and the boys followed, and after passing Olaf and the Painters, they found a place for three in a pew halfway up. When Grandma realized she was sitting next to Louella Straight, there with her family, she asked Pete to move onto her other side, beside Louella, because, Grandma claimed, she couldn’t see.

T
HE LARGE
C
HRISTMAS
tree dominated the cozy sanctuary, hung with homemade paper angels children had cut out and colored, and the aroma of candle wax and evergreen accented the peaceful silence and uncommon hush in which they all participated. Louella and Pete shared a hymnbook, and Grandma sang the Christmas carols with gusto, until the last, when the congregation stood, holding small burning candles, and sang “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” Pete noticed she wasn’t singing and regarded her from the corner of his eye.

O little town of Bethlehem, How still we see thee lie!

Tears streamed down her face and though she tried to sing, her voice choked on emotion.

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep
The silent stars go by;

Pete lost his voice on the third line and his eyes blurred.

Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The Everlasting Light;

As the congregation came to the last line in the verse, none of the three could manage a sound: as though some long-repressed sorrow found its way to the surface in the safety and warmth of that hallowed moment.

The hopes and fears of all the years
        Are met in thee tonight.