Death at the Black Bull (9 page)

“O
kay, Virgil, you're good to go.”

The doctor handed Virgil a packet.

“Here's some information for you. Dos and don'ts. Most of it's common sense, but as Mark Twain said, common sense ain't so common anymore. There's all the post-op protocol listed there, and your next appointment. Your prescription will be waiting for you at Hadley's. Remember, nothing crazy. Try to avoid sudden movement or eyestrain, anything that would trigger a headache. And remember, from now on because of those metal clips in your brain, no MRIs of your head. Have you got your appointment with Dr. Patel?”

“Got everything. Thanks, Sam.”

“All right. Get back to the ranch and sit under a tree. There's not enough law around here. You're all we got and we don't want to lose you.”

Virgil and Sam shook hands and five minutes later Virgil was sitting outside in a wheelchair with the nurse Karen by his side.

“Here's my ride. Thanks again, Karen. It was an interesting week.”

Virgil stood up as Cesar in the pickup came to a stop. He climbed into the truck and then she closed the door.

“Don't forget what I said. Look up that lady when you become a little more presentable.”

Virgil gave a wave from the opened window and they drove off.

“You don't look so bad.” Cesar said. “Maybe still a little yellow and puffy. And of course there's that ugly scar that looks like you lost a knife fight.”

“You're describing somebody not quite ready for public consumption. Thanks for the reality check.”

They drove the rest of the way in silence. As they turned onto the dirt driveway, Virgil let out a sigh.

“It's good to be home.”

“It always is,” Cesar said.

Although it had only been nine or ten days since he had left, it somehow seemed longer than that. When he got out of the truck and stood a little unsteadily, he realized he was wearing the exact same clothes he'd had on when he left that Saturday night for the Black Bull. He looked around for some sign of change, but saw none.

“I'm going inside. Maybe lie down for a little while.”

“Good. You look about as steady as a newborn calf. I'll be back in a couple of hours. Get off your feet.”

Virgil watched Cesar go, until he disappeared from view on the county road. He took one more look around, but the only change he could come up with was a little more wilt to the cottonwoods. The screen door slapped in back of him as he stepped into the kitchen. His boots sounded hollow on the floor as he walked to the sink for a glass of water, reminding him that he had failed to use the bootjack outside the kitchen door. Then he remembered they weren't his work boots, but his $150 Noconas, his Christmas splurge, which had never seen the inside of a barn and only a stirrup when he rode in the Fourth of July parade.

In his bedroom, he started to peel off his clothes. He was pulling off his slacks when he reached into the pocket and came up with the small, folded-up sack that Jimmy had handed him the night before he went into the Black Bull. The Hayward name and the logo of the pecan tree reminded him of the unfinished business that awaited his return.

Not now, he thought. A sudden, profound tiredness had come upon him. He slipped off his shorts, letting them lie where they dropped, then crawled into bed. He couldn't remember the last time he had been in his bed in the middle of the afternoon. He looked around the room, largely unchanged in his lifetime. The muslin curtains floated out, catching a slight afternoon breeze. As he fell asleep, an image of the cemetery came to him. The hole in the ground where they had put Buddy Hinton.

*   *   *

He awoke hours later to the sound of Cesar's voice calling him to supper. His sleep had been so deep, he realized he was in the exact position he lay in when he had first closed his eyes. Glancing toward the window, he no longer saw bright sunlight but the softer glow of lateral rays. He yelled down to Cesar, put on some clean clothes, then descended the stairs.

“What did you cook, chilis and beans?”

“I cook lotsa different things,” Cesar said, smiling.

“Yeah, but somehow even your Italian comes out Mexican.”

“I never saw you push a plate away. Anyhow, tonight it's lasagna with fresh Italian bread courtesy of Rosie. Dave dropped it off on his way down to Redbud this morning. And if that ain't good enough, I got a bottle of Chianti to go along with it. Tomorrow night, courtesy of Jimmy's mom, it's going to be fried chicken, corn bread, and I thought I'd do sweet corn.”

“Ah, the living is good,” Virgil said.

“Yeah. I was thinking, maybe you oughta lose fights on a regular basis from now on.”

“I didn't lose the fight. I never got a chance to be in it.”

*   *   *

Over the next week Virgil relaxed to the point of boredom. The staples in his head had been removed and everything was coming along nicely. One morning, when he looked in the mirror he felt he'd gotten to the point where he wouldn't scare small children. The mixed colors of yellow and blue were gone and his head was looking less and less like the skin of a peach, although it was far from needing a comb. Sam had told him one more week ought to do it, but the notion of sitting in a chair on the front porch watching the arc of the sun or trying to find something interesting on TV to fill some of his time was nothing he looked forward to. So the next morning at breakfast he made an announcement.

“I'm out of here for the next couple of days. I'm taking a little drive.” He set his coffee cup on the saucer, waiting for Cesar's reply.

“Where to?”

“I'm going to visit Clara.”

“That's more than a little drive. It's four hours at least to El Paso.”

“I know. That's why I think I'll stay over.”

Cesar knew there was no way he could talk Virgil out of the trip, and he actually had been kind of surprised that he'd been able to keep him in the corral as long as he had.

“Maybe you should check with Doc Sam, see what he has to say first.”

“Already have.”

“Well, leave a message on the answering machine when you get there.”

“Sure, Mom.” He stood, drained his cup, and walked out the door.

H
e paused by the Black Bull on his way out of town. He thought about stopping. Then the moment passed. He shrugged off the notion, but down deep he knew that any reason to stop would have less to do with Buddy and more to do with the woman.

The rest of the trip passed uneventfully. Outside of the slightly changing landscape there was nothing of interest to slow him down. In less than four hours, he was on the outskirts of El Paso. It had been a while, but he found his way to Clara's house without difficulty.

Clara was his father's oldest sister by almost fifteen years. He figured she must have been well into her eighties by now, but she had sounded unchanged when he had spoken with her. It had been more than a while since he had made his last trip, and he was feeling a little guilty when her house came into sight. It was a small adobe ranch in the old style, with massive logs sticking through the walls on the corners. He could picture the kiva that centered the long wall in the living area and the coolness that contradicted its purpose on a hot, summer day. It always amazed him how the thick walls held the desert heat at bay. Carrying his overnight bag, he opened the heavy oak door and yelled Clara's name. When there was no response, he dropped his bag by a mission oak chair with a multicolored serape draped over its back, then passed through a doorway to the kitchen. Not seeing her there, he went out the back door to Clara's garden. There he finally saw her. She was bent over a row of green. A small wicker basket was on her arm, filled with what Virgil took to be either green peppers or tomatillos. She was wearing a light blue cotton dress sprinkled with desert flowers. Wisps of white hair showed from beneath the straw hat she wore. Her clear, strong voice broke the silence.

“That you, Virgil?” She had yet to stand up or turn around.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“'Bout ready to give you up for dead, been so long since I laid eyes on you,” she said. “Come, help an old lady.”

He walked to her side. She reached for his arm then pulled herself up. “I git down easy enough, but when it comes to standing after I've been bent awhile, that's a different story.”

They walked from the heat of the garden into the cool of the adobe. Clara took the basket from Virgil and set it on the counter next to the refrigerator.

“Just let me rinse these off. Then I'll get us a glass of lemonade and we can relax for a moment before dinner.”

“Anything I can do?”

“No. Just get that bag of yours and set yourself up down the hall. You know the room.”

Virgil grabbed his bag and went down the hall to the same room he had slept in on his last visit, and so many times before. Nothing had changed. Not that he had expected it to. By the time he got back to the kitchen, two tall glasses of lemonade with sprigs of mint sat ready on the table.

“Virgil, grab them and bring them into the living room while I get us a snack.”

He set the glasses on the rustic table with the glass top in front of the wood-framed sofa that sat facing the kiva. The cushions were covered in heavy fabric with a Navajo-style print. A few minutes later, Clara came in carrying a tray and put it down in the middle of the table. Virgil and Clara settled in on either side of the sofa. Virgil picked up his glass, took a long drink from it, then set it back down on the table and smiled.

“Still following your old recipe on the lemonade.”

“A little tequila adds just a nice comfort at the end of the day. Don't worry, the worm's still in the bottle.”

“I'd say there's a mite more than a little tequila in this glass.”

“When you get old, Virgil, you have a little more tolerance for most things. For me it seems to be tequila. Besides, I don't think a classy little old lady like me should sit here in the late afternoon doing shots. A glass of lemonade seems more appropriate.”

“No, I guess you wouldn't want to give the wrong impression, you being a retired school librarian and all.”

“There you go talking stereotypes. You'd be surprised at what school librarians are capable of. Clyde found that out.”

“How long's it been?”

“Almost five years now, and I miss him every day. More so at night.”

“Yeah, he was pretty near at the top of my list, too.”

“I'm not saying he was perfect. He could hear the pop of a cork from a mile away, but couldn't hear me asking him to take out the garbage from the next room. Nevertheless, he kept me from dying a virgin and gave me two good boys when I figured my eggs had already reached their expiration date. No, warts and all, I couldn't have done better. I was so mad at that bull that gored him I put a load of buckshot in that scattergun over there”—she nodded toward the corner—“then I let him have it all. I don't think he barely noticed, but it made me feel good. The parson said I should have fought hard against my anger. Hell, it was the easiest thing I'd ever done.”

“That parson you referred to . . . You got born again?” He said it with a wary look in his eye. Clara almost winced.

“You know better than that, Virgil. I had enough trouble getting born the first time. I figure that'll hold me until they're throwing dirt in my face. But like I said, I've become more tolerant in my old age. What about you? You seen the inside of a church since your last visit?”

“No, ma'am. Guess I'll die a sinner.”

“Not according to my religion.”

“You got one?”

“We all do, whether we call it religion or not. Mine is I try to do the best I can and try not to hurt anybody in the process. Some probably call it the Golden Rule. I never could tolerate Bible-thumpers, but if that's what it takes to get some folks through, then let them have it. I got an idea you're pretty much like me. I don't see you being mean or doing hurt to anyone on purpose.”

Before Virgil could respond, Clara drained her glass and stood up.

“Enough of this serious talk on an empty stomach. C'mon, let's cook up something. I'll put you to good use and if you do a good job, I'll give you another glass of Aunt Clara's lemonade.”

*   *   *

“I don't mind saying that's the best meal I've had in a long time. Sure beats hospital food by a mile.”

“Well that's no competition. What about Cesar?”

“Oh, he's good. It's just . . . well, I don't know how it happens, but whatever he cooks, even spaghetti, somehow it all comes out Mexican.”

Clara smiled as she set a cup of steaming coffee in front of him then a huge slice of peach pie alongside. “He's a good man,” she said. “You're lucky to have him, Mexican food and all.”

“No argument there.” Virgil swallowed a forkful of pie still warm from the oven. “That is good.”

Clara sat watching him wolf down the pie.

“I don't know how Clyde stayed so thin, eating like this. Aren't you having any pie?”

“Maybe later. Just like I used to watch Clyde, I'm enjoying watching you. That's enough for me now. Why don't we take our coffee out on the patio?”

Virgil, cup in hand, followed Clara out the door. They settled next to each other in a glider facing the western ridges. Lateral rays from the setting sun slanted across Clara's garden and the fenced-in field beyond. They sat in the quiet a long time, sipping their coffee and savoring the coolness that came with the departing sun. The hoot of an owl making its first nightly foray broke the quiet.

“Somebody else is hungry,” Clara said. She looked at Virgil, studying him in profile, taking note of the long half-moon scar still visible through the new growth on his head. She reached out and took his hand in hers. “I was worried about you. Wish I could've gotten up to see you, but I'm a little leery of a drive that far alone.”

Virgil squeezed her hand back. Small and delicate, it seemed lost in his. “I'm fine,” he said. “How are the boys?”

“Well, Clyde junior and his family are still up in Seattle. Been there twenty years now. His three girls are growing like weeds. I get up once or twice a year. Vernon's still working on oil rigs. Still single. He gets back here between jobs. You missed him by two weeks. What about you, Virgil? You still sleeping alone?”

“Well, I am at present.”

“Hope you're working on that. Remember, you can't shoot a rusty gun.”

“Clara, you are a caution.”

“C'mon, boy, I'm not telling you something you don't know. You can't dwell in the past.”

Virgil didn't say anything.

“She was a pretty girl, that Rusty. So was her mother.”

“Still is,” he said. “Her mother, I mean. Still hates the sight of me. Which I don't really understand. I loved Rusty, every bit of me. Pretty much finished me when she died.”

“She don't hate you. She hates what she lost and what she never got to have. You just remind her of that.”

The glider rocked slowly beneath them. The smell of sage was strong in the night air. What was left of the sun barely broke the horizon. Shadows blended into dark as the night settled.

“I didn't realize you knew her that well,” he said.

“She's not that hard to figure out, Virgil. Audrey married Micah Hayward more for what he represented than for who he was. It didn't take long for the bloom to come off the rose. Of course, she came to meet the man she should have married for all the right reasons, but by that time she had two sons.”

She stopped and looked at him.

“That man she really loved, Virgil . . . that was your father. But the affair was doomed from the start. Your father could never break up a family. There was a lot of damage, nevertheless. By the time the smoke cleared, alcohol had become Micah's sole profession. Then, when your father married an Indian, I think Audrey probably took it as the ultimate denial.”

The sun had vanished. It was a moonless night. They were barely visible to each other. The quiet crowded around each, alone with their thoughts. They sat that way a long time.

“I kinda forgot about your history in Hayward,” Virgil finally said.

“It was a lifetime ago,” she said, “but sometimes it seems like yesterday. You're probably too young to have experienced this, but sometimes, when I look back, it almost seems like somebody else's life.”

Virgil nodded.

“I was a girl back then,” she said. “In Hayward. The town was little more than a wide spot in the road. Main Street was the only paved road and that was only because it was part of the county highway. Mavis Tillson and me were the first librarians.”

“I didn't know that. Mavis Tillson . . .”

“You never met Mavis. She drowned in a gully washer, right after a freak storm. That was before you were born. But anyway, Mavis took a particular interest in Audrey whenever she came into the library. Said she was smart as a whip, but didn't have hardly any friends. Guess that's why she spent so much time in the library. Mavis told me Audrey's father was a rodeo cowboy who didn't come back to town once he found out Audrey's mother was fertile. It was an old story. Audrey's mom worked in the school cafeteria. They didn't have much. I thought I'd seen the last of Audrey once she went away to college. Figured she'd put Hayward in her rearview mirror.”

“I thought I'd do that, too,” Virgil said. “Once upon a time.”

“Small towns can be suffocating. There's got to be a good reason for young people to stay. Guess Rusty was yours. For Audrey, I guess it was Micah. And your father.”

“That's why she came back from college? To marry Micah?”

“No . . . no. I think she only came back because her mother was dying. But let me tell you, when she came back, every man in town, from sixteen to sixty, took notice. She had become a real beauty. Micah Hayward, in particular, took notice. And he was at the top of the food chain.”

“So that's when she decided to stay.”

“Well, I heard this from Mavis, whose father was the only undertaker in town. He told her that he had stood next to Audrey the day after her mother died. It was late December, and there was a Blue Norther coming. Audrey was staring down into the hole in which they had just lowered her mother. When Mavis's father asked Audrey where he should send the bill, she told him, without hesitation, to send it to Micah Hayward at the Hayward Ranch. So I guess you could say that when she came back to the town she grew up in, she came back on top, even taking the town's name as her own. She moved into that house they call Crow's Nest and there she stayed.”