Ghost Medicine (5 page)

Luz took my hat and set it down on the bench beside me. My dirty-straw…colored hair fell down across my eyes and she combed it back with her left hand. “I like your hair long like this, Troy. Don't cut it all off again.”

I couldn't stand it anymore so I kissed her on the cheek, and then she turned and I kissed her mouth; and I know my mouth wasn't so straight after that. I exhaled, relieved that I had finally made a crossing to the girl.

“Yeah. I can come back for dinner.”

“We'll send someone to pick you up at five, so you don't ride that poor horse to death,” she said, and looked right at me, smiling, “and so you don't smell like horse sweat at the dinner table.”

“Troy Stotts! Troy!” It was Gabriel, running down the road from the house toward us. Gabe was like a brother to me, and I wanted to see him, but my heart kind of sank with the thought that he had seen me kissing his sister.

“Oh God. I'm sorry, Luz.”

“Don't worry about Gabey. I'll handle him.”

I waited and waited. It was 5:15, and no one had shown up in our drive yet. I was sweating in my collared shirt, standing there by the door. I wasn't going to wear my hat, either. My hair was kind of hanging down over my left eye.

“Think it's about time for a haircut?”

“No.”

“You look like you're going on a date or something, son.” My dad was sitting in the living room under the big front window, legs crossed, reading. We and the Bullers were the only people I had ever known who didn't have TV sets. Over the years, I had gotten used to it, but I still liked watching it on rainy days over at Gabe's.

I sighed. “Oh.”

“Well? Are you?”

I sat down next to my dad.

“Kind of.”

“I like her, too, Troy.”

I sighed again.

“I just wish I could get moving ‘cause I kind of feel sick inside.”

“Relax. I could take you down there—”

“No.”

Finally I heard the clanking of the F-150, kicking up dust and rattling down the drive. I turned and looked past my father and saw Tommy Buller driving up. I knew my dad was about to say something again about how he didn't really like me riding with Tom, even though the Benavidezes sent him out plenty of times, so I hurried for the door.

“I'll be back,” I said, wanting to let him know I'd come home this time.

And as I opened the door and moved out into the dusty front yard, my dad called out after me, “Troy! Have fun!”

I opened the rusty door and looked across the cracking bench seat at Tom Buller, who smiled wide enough so I could just see a bit of the tobacco in his lip. He held out his right hand to grab mine and half pull me up into the cab of the truck. Even though he was seventeen, we were in the same grade, but Tom Buller always liked to keep his own schedule when it came to things like school.

“Welcome back, Stottsy. We were all afraid you and that horse had left us for good.” And he smiled as he jammed the grinding column shift down into drive.

“You look a little prettied up for having dinner with Gabe and his family,” Tom said, obviously digging for something.

I didn't say anything as he U-turned the truck around in front of the house. I rolled the window down and looked out like I didn't even hear what Tom had just said to me. I could see my dad watching us through the window as we pulled away.

Tom got this wicked coyotelike look on his face, the look he got whenever he was trying to do something funny-mean, like when he got me to take the kayak over the falls.

“Hey, Stotts, want some beer?” And he grabbed an open beer can wedged upright against the dash in the open, dirty ashtray. I knew he was joking, that this was his spit can.

“Oh man, I could sure use a cold beer right now,” I said, and I took the can from his hand and put it right up to my lips and tipped it, but just a little, and pretended to swallow.

“Thanks, Tommy. That was just what I needed.”

Tom burst out laughing.

“Oh man, Stotts, you're crazy. You scare me.”

But I held the can out, offering. “You want some, too?”

Tom crawled the truck slowly down my drive and then hit the gas hard when we were out of sight of my house, spinning the back tires and causing a slight fishtail as we headed around the lake and south toward the Benavidez ranch.

“You staying for dinner?” I asked.

“Naw.” Tommy spit smoothly. “I already ate.”

Of course I knew the Bullers wouldn't be eating dinner at their boss' table, but I asked it anyway. Arturo Benavidez made a fortune raising and selling his horses all over the country, and he respected the Bullers enough to let them live in his Foreman's house, but they were just workers to him, and he never crossed that line of socialization. So I felt a little stupid and embarrassed that a friend I admired as much as Tommy Buller might think he was a little less privileged than I.

“Well, where you been, Stotts?”

“I don't know, Tom. I'll tell you about it sometime.”

“Okay.”

Luz Benavidez wore a dress at dinner, so I was happy I got myself what I'd considered dressed up by putting on a shirt. It was a red dress, tied behind her neck so you could see her shoulders and upper back, tight at her waist, and falling just below her knees. Her hair was tied back, too, which made her shoulders and back even more noticeable. She was about the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. The Benavidez house smelled so good, and I was so hungry, but how could I eat at the table with Luz Benavidez looking like that and not miss my mouth, fumbling with a fork and knife?

Her father and Carl Buller had flown back from Wyoming that afternoon, and when he saw me come in Mr. Benavidez, smelling like soap and cigars, shook my hand hard enough to break bones. And that house seemed so big and vacant to me; it echoed like a cave as I nervously found my seat at their table. So it was just Luz, Gabe, their parents, and me.

Fernanda Benavidez did all the cooking for her family, every day. She didn't need to, though; they employed dozens of people at the ranch, all told. She was from Italy, and had a thick accent and a deep, loud, carrying voice that was kind of intimidating because she always sounded mad, even though she rarely was.

It was one thing to have my dad cook bacon and eggs for me, but eating at the Benavidez house was like a feast at the finest restaurant. It was too quiet, though, and I had to force myself to keep my eyes down as I nervously worked on a plate sized steak.

“It's good to have you here, Troy,” Mr. Benavidez said. “How is your father?”

“He's good, thank you. We're doing a lot better.”

“You need to eat more, Troy. Look at you.” Mrs. Benavidez scowled. Did all moms say things like that? I don't know, but I do know everyone picked up on the fact that it made me a little sad to hear anyone's mother saying so; it made it hard to keep eating. So I took a drink of water. Gabe cleared his throat. But his mom was staring right at me, looking mad. I couldn't ever figure her out. Luz could talk about my straight-mouthing all she wanted, but Fernanda Benavidez had a mouth that always turned down at the edges, even when she smiled.

“He's a fast runner,” Gabe protested. “Runners don't eat a lot. Give him a break, Mom.”

Mr. Benavidez glanced disapprovingly at his son. It made me feel even more uncomfortable. Gabriel never seemed to measure up to his father's expectations.

“This is an excellent dinner, Mrs. Benavidez.” And I cleared my throat and drank again. “Thank you.”

I wanted Luz to say something. I caught her looking my way from across the table, but she just looked down at her food. Something was wrong; I could tell.

“You're going into the eleventh grade now, Troy?” Mr. Benavidez asked, but I know he knew the answer because I was in every grade with Luz since kindergarten.

“Yes. And my dad's getting me some AP tests this fall.”

“Is your father going to come back to teaching?”

My father had taken the last half of the school year off from teaching high school.

“He's planning on it.”

“The board will be happy to hear that.”

The board of the school consisted of Mr. Benavidez; the sheriff, Clayton Rutledge; and one other parent.

“School's a long time off,” Gabriel said. “Let's talk about something happy.”

“Did you get any horses up in Wyoming, Mr. Benavidez?” I asked.

That energized him. “Oh! I've never seen such ugly horses. And for so much money. What a waste of time! Even Carl said he'd rather be caught riding a burro.”

I couldn't eat everything they gave me, and I was a little embarrassed. When we were finished with dinner, Mr. Benavidez sent Luz in with her mother to make coffee and told Gabriel to go get him a brandy. Then he told me, “Let's go out on the terrace, Troy.”

I'd have just as soon taken a bath in honey and gone out on that terrace alone with a bear, but there was nothing I could do.

I felt pretty sick as he opened the glass-and-wood doors leading off the dining room. “Come on, it's nice outside.” And he smiled at me.

The terrace was a planked wooden deck, finely furnished, above the ground floor of the house. It was wide and long, with an intricately carved rail around its edge. Potted jasmine grew at perfectly spaced intervals along it. I walked to the railing and took in the broad view of the huge Benavidez holdings, which stretched into the distance, farther than I could see in the moonlight. Art Benavidez followed behind me.

“Do you think one day you'll be a teacher, also?”

“Only if I can't do what I really want.”

“And what's that?”

“Well,” I said, and swallowed, “I'd like to write books. And I'd like to own this ranch.”

He laughed. “You'd have to change your name.”

“Or carve some pretty big redwoods to make some new gates.” His smile was a relief, but it was short-lived.

Gabriel opened the door and came out, carrying a fishbowl-sized glass with about two inches of amber-colored liquid in it.

“Gabriel,” Benavidez said, “will you please excuse us for a few minutes. Troy and I are talking about something important. Go help your mother and sister.”

If I were wearing a necktie, I would have hung myself off that balcony right then and there. So I guess there
are
times when dressing up pays off. Gabriel looked disappointed and slammed the glass door as he left.

“Your father and I have known each other since we were boys,” Benavidez said. “And except for those years when he was away at college, your family, like mine, has been here on the shores of this lake for a very long time.

“Your father's father was a farmer. You probably don't remember him, but he was a good man. He would have been proud to see you, Troy; I know this. We had the ranch on this side of the water, your family farmed on the other. But we were always great friends, despite our differences.” He took a drink. “Do you know the difference between farmers and ranchers?”

Of course I had to stop myself from saying something smart-alecky, like I usually do when I'm nervous or terrified. And so Mr. Benavidez took a drink and went on:

“At the end of the day, at the end of each year, a farmer always totals up what he has lost. But a rancher always counts what he
has
. This is how I think and how your father thinks, too. It was how we were raised, and even though we think differently, we are still great friends.” He drank again. “So how do you count things?”

I thought I knew the answer, but said, “I don't know.”

And I never thought coffee could take so long to brew.

“I will talk to your father. I would like you to start working here, beginning Monday morning, at six o'clock. You're old enough. I will pay you three hundred per week, like I pay Tom Buller.”

I was shocked. Nothing could be better than working on that ranch with all those incredible horses. Nothing.