Death at the Black Bull (8 page)

“Y
ou know the last guy who came at me with a razor, I shot.”

“Well, I hope you're happy with the haircut,” the attendant said.

Ten minutes later, he had collected the results of his work in a pile. There were a few gray hairs in the mix.

“Almost done.”

“You mean there's actually still some hair on my head?”

“Just some stubble, but it'll be gone in a minute.”

He took a straight razor from the nightstand next to the bed, smeared some foam over Virgil's head, and was done in another five minutes. “Just like shaving a peach,” he said. “You want to see?”

“I guess.”

“He held up a mirror, and Virgil looked at his bald-headed reflection for the first time. He thought it strange to almost not be able to recognize oneself.

“Guess I'll have to get a Harley when I leave here.”

“I think you look pretty good.”

“Compared to what?”

“Well, I mean you have a nice shape to your head. Not everybody does. I've had some look like aliens, some their head comes to a point. Yours ain't half bad.”

“Thanks for the appraisal. Guess I won't have to shoot you after all.”

After the attendant left, Virgil lay quietly. The loss of his topknot made him feel a little more vulnerable. Before he got a chance to feel sorry for himself, the nurse Karen came in, smiling when she saw him.

“Well, you look different. Kinda sexy.”

“A lot of good that's going to do me now.”

“Well, maybe later. That was a pretty nice-looking visitor you had a while ago.”

“Oh, I'll tell Jimmy what you said about him. Maybe he'll be interested.”

“Jimmy?”

“My nice-looking visitor.”

“Oh, him. Yeah, he was kinda cute. Maybe we could double date. Me and the lady. You and Jimmy.”

She winked at Virgil. For the first time, he had no comeback.

The next half hour was pretty much a blur. By the time he was introduced to Dr. Patel, the sharp edge of consciousness was gone and much of what the doctor said was lost on him. A few minutes after the doctor left, Virgil felt strong hands lift him onto the gurney that was alongside his bed. A brief ride along a white hallway, where he saw passersby as if from a distance, then he felt those same strong hands slide him onto an operating table. He tried to help with the transition, but his normally strong arms felt like they almost didn't belong to him. He saw people he didn't know moving about the room talking and even laughing. The room was large and so well lit everything seemed crisp and clear. There was no shadow. The doctor leaned over and Virgil heard him say something about being ready to start, then he saw a couple of masked faces come into view, then nothing.

It could have been an hour or a month when he next became aware of the world. The first thing he saw was the same doctor leaning over him, but without the mask. Virgil remembered the name, Patel. Virgil was struck by how young he looked. He had a hard time wrapping his head around the notion that this man, who looked like a high school senior, had just cut into his brain.

“Everything went just as we hoped. You'll be in this step-down unit a little while longer, and if there are no hiccups, you'll be brought back to your room.”

Virgil nodded in response.

“I'll see you later.”

Virgil nodded again, closing his eyes as the doctor stepped away. Virgil was eager to get back to the dreamless world that had allowed him to lose a day from his life.

*   *   *

“Well, you either lost that fight or the other guy is dead.”

Virgil reluctantly opened his eyes to see Rosie sitting by the side of his bed. He looked around and realized he was back in his room. His throat was so dry that when he responded to her his words came out in a whisper.

“I can't hear you, Virgil. Hold on.”

She reached for a pitcher on the table next to Virgil's bed. After pouring a glass of water, she held it to Virgil's lips. He drained the glass, then lay back into his pillow.

“Who's minding the store?”

“Dif Taylor. Jimmy said you told him to give him a call.”

“They bury Buddy?”

“Yeah, they're probably at the cemetery now. I went to the service, then I called Dif. I'm on my way back to the office now, but I knew everyone was anxious to see how you made out. That's why I stopped by, to see if the operation was over. How are you feeling?”

“Better after seeing you. You're one of the best-looking women I never dated.”

“I'll be sure to tell Dave. Remind him how lucky he is.”

“He wouldn't shoot a man in bed, would he?”

“Some men maybe, but not you. He called three times today from Redbud to find out if I'd heard anything. You got a lot of friends, Virgil.”

“Nice to know.”

“Well, I've got to get back.”

She stood up, leaned over the bed, and gave Virgil a kiss. It felt better than the water.

“We've got to stop meeting like this,” he said.

Rosita squeezed his hand and left. Virgil could still taste the softness of her lips and he wondered if Dave realized how lucky he was.

A few minutes later, Karen came into the room.

“Well, back among the living.”

“Guess so.”

“You ready for that burger and fries now?”

“How about a cold beer to go along with it?”

“Sorry, we don't have our liquor license yet. You'll have to settle for coffee, tea, or juice.”

“Coffee it is.”

When she returned with a tray, Virgil asked for a mirror.

“Maybe you should wait till after you eat. You're not quite the looker who came in here.”

Virgil looked in the mirror she handed him. His head was swathed in white and he realized for the first time he was wearing a light, protective head covering over the bandage. Instinctively, he reached up to feel the hard plastic. His face was swollen and mottled, his eyes blackened and blue.

“Was my nose broken by that punch?”

“Oh, no. The black eyes . . . that's all fallout from the operation.”

“I look like he operated on me with a sledgehammer.”

“Don't worry. In a week to ten days, you'll be another good-looking guy with a crew cut and that lady that was in here yesterday will be all over you.”

Virgil didn't say anything for a few seconds. Then he picked up the coffee cup. “We live in hope,” he said. Then he put the cup to his lips and started his healing.

*   *   *

Dirt from the pile next to the open hole in the ground swirled as it caught a steady breeze. Jimmy stood slightly apart from the crowd. He'd come with the rest from the church. The place had been packed. Buddy had a lot of friends and so did his folks. More than a few of them Jimmy did not know at all. He wondered if they were just curious because of the manner in which Buddy died. Jimmy remembered his great-grandpa saying death in the extreme brought out the extreme in some people. The old man had witnessed the last public hanging in the town as a child. As he told Jimmy, he never did see such a crowd. People came from miles around. It was like a carnival. There were vendors selling stuff. People from way out in the country came in buckboards loaded with kids and old folks. Some came alone on muleback. They brought blankets and picnic baskets, waiting anxiously for the big event. He said it was a surefire fascination and he never forgot it.

Jimmy saw this fascination in the eyes of the preacher who had never seen such a crowd in his church. He did not lose the opportunity. By the time he finished, there was hardly a dry eye in the place. Even Jimmy, who had not been brought up in a religious tradition, was stirred. He came away from the service thinking that Buddy was a much better person than he'd ever known. He was so turned around in his thinking that he felt guilty remembering the time Buddy was wrestling with Mary Lou Harris and he reached up under her skirt, or the time he got so drunk he dropped his pants while standing in the bed of his pickup on Main Street and tried pissing on passing cars. The Buddy that came from the preacher's mouth couldn't have done any of those things.

By the time they got to the cemetery the crowd had thinned. The sun was high and the day so hot that if it hadn't been so dry, rivers of perspiration would have been pouring down his back. High overhead, a single cloud drifted across the sky. He could see a flutter among the leaves of the cottonwoods that stood on a knoll in the center of the cemetery. There were a few wooden benches scattered underneath the cottonwoods, he supposed, for people who would come to visit. It puzzled him, why people would want to come, sit on a bench under a tree to look down on a graveyard. The idea that Buddy was soon to be one of these people being looked down upon unnerved him. It wasn't that Buddy was his best friend or even a friend, but he had always treated Jimmy decently, seemed so full of life, and Jimmy kind of felt they were alike. But here he was being lowered into the ground, and Jimmy was not comfortable with the idea of bumping into his own mortality.

The final words of the pastor were floating on the breeze when Jimmy remembered his official reason for being here. He looked over the crowd, trying to focus on the people so that he could give Virgil a full account.

The only standout he saw was the woman he had seen at the foot of Virgil's bed the day before in the hospital. As the service ended, some people walked up and laid flowers on the coffin. A couple touched it. Jimmy didn't join them. He was as close as he wanted to get. As the last of them walked away, he stood for a while in the sudden quiet. He noted how much progress the solitary cloud had made, saw a hawk high in the sky riding the thermals, and he thought about what Virgil had said to him. Then he left the graveyard, as Virgil said he would. Buddy stayed.

W
hen she had seen him hanging back from the crowd, she had thought of approaching him to find out how her recent defender was making out. She had gotten the feeling he was standing apart for a reason. Her own feelings about being there were tied up with a lot of emotion and regret that she couldn't even explain to herself. On the ride back to the Black Bull, she thought about Virgil. For a second, she hesitated as she passed by the hospital. She thought of going in again. He might not even be there, she thought, and anyway she wasn't ready to make the first move. Knocked out from one punch, she had been surprised that they had even kept him overnight. No. She was sure he was long gone. Besides, if by chance he was there . . .

She stopped her train of thought, asking herself a different question. Why would she be stopping? The hospital was well in her rearview mirror before she decided to leave it unanswered. By the time she reached the outskirts of town, her mind had moved on to the mundane. It was Monday. She thought it might be a little busier than a normal Monday because a lot of regulars were at the funeral, which meant they might plan on doing some reminiscing about Buddy Hinton over a cold one. That'd be all right with her. She liked to stay busy.

Fifteen minutes later, she was in back of the bar going over the dinner specials and checking the stock, when she glanced down the bar to where Virgil had been sitting. She grabbed a bar towel and started wiping off the bar, ending up where he had been. The names and initials that had been carved into the bar many years before meant nothing to her. But she was curious, remembering his interest. The invitation by the owner to legitimately deface the bar had been well received. Names, initials, wishes of good luck, along with some questionable comments crowded the surface, sealed in perpetuity. Then she saw it. Crowded into the right-angle corner, the carved image of a thrown lariat with a loop at its end. Inside the loop were the names Rusty and Virgil. She ran her hand over the image, but it was as smooth as the rest of the bar, covered in the thickness that had sealed it there forever. She thought of Virgil sitting there and in the hospital.

“I guess we all got a history,” she said.