Marathon Cowboys (20 page)

next breath. “You’re in the hospital. You’re okay. Nothing to

worry about.” I reached for his hand, and he squeezed my

fingers just a bit. “I’m here, Jesse. I’m not going anywhere.”

And he was seeing me, then. I could see the change in

his eyes, hearing what I was saying, and the tears slipped

out of the corners of his eyes and slid down toward his ears.

I leaned closer. “I’ll never leave you. I love you too much. I

tried not to, but you were too strong for me.”

And the nurse stuck her head inside the door. “That’s

good for now. Let’s give him a rest.”

We got to sit in the waiting room with the fuckhead, who

appeared to me to be enjoying his role of keeper of the

floodgates. “I want you to do something for Jesse,” he said,

snapping his phone shut. I waited. “You probably didn’t see

the news, since you were on the plane, but everybody’s

waiting to see if he’s okay. It will mean a lot to this peace

march if he makes it.”

“If he makes it? Isn’t that nice. It will mean something

for a lot of people if he
makes
it.”

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“This was important to him.” Sam looked exhausted

suddenly, his face an unhealthy gray. “Look, you can think

whatever you want about me. But he wasn’t doing this for

the money. He had something to say. He wanted to say it

with his painting, and he wanted to say it with this peace

march. Now, are you gonna help him or not?”

The Original stood up next to me.

“What is it you want me to do?”

“I want you to go on the stage at the rally and tell

everyone that Jesse is going to live.”

“And by any chance, will there be a video projection of

Death of a Grievous Angel
behind me, when I say this?”

“Yes. And I want you to pull your shirt open, let

everybody see your chest, before you say anything.”

“Excuse me?”

He held up a hand to stop me. “Let them see he was

telling the truth. Let them see your scars, so they’ll know his

painting was telling the truth. You let everybody get a good

look. Then you tell them he’s going to live.”

I stared at him. He was right.
Let them see he was telling

the truth
. I didn’t think that painting needed corroboration.

But it would be a fine piece of TV. It occurred to me that he

might be the most manipulative person ever to walk the face

of the earth. If he was a bug, I would have squashed him

under my heel without a second thought.

“I’ll do this. And then you’re out of his life. You take

your commission, and you make whatever arrangements you

need to make with the money, and then you let him go, you

understand me?”

He started to protest, and I stood up, reached for the

hem of my T-shirt, and pulled it over my head. He looked

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hard at the scars on my chest and the muscles across my

shoulders. “Fuck. Yeah, fine, cowboy. You take him. He’s

yours.”

The Original tugged me back and spoke to Sam. “Son,

you look tired. Why don’t you take a break? Get some rest?

You can come get Lorenzo when you want him for your dog

and pony show.”

Sam wouldn’t look at me, and I pulled my T-shirt back

on. “Fine. Where’s he gonna be?”

I just shook my head, heard the gentle irony in The

Original’s voice. “He’s gonna be here, with Jesse.”

I waited outside the glass box for my five minutes every

hour, and after a while, The Original and I took turns

sleeping, so someone was always awake in case he wanted

us. In the morning, the nurse showed me where the shower

was, and I went downstairs to the barber shop and got my

hair cut in a USMC regulation high and tight. I wanted to

look good if I was going to strip for CNN. The Original was

looking tired, old and frail, and I tried to talk him into going

to a hotel to sleep, but he wouldn’t leave.

They took the breathing tube out early on the third

morning, and I could hear Jesse cry out in pain when he

coughed. His throat was full of fluid, but when he coughed,

it hurt his chest so much he was crying. I went into the room

with the nurse, lifted him up and bent him over, held my

hand over his chest wound while he coughed. “That’s right,”

the nurse said, grabbing a basin. “You’ve done this before.”

When he could breathe again, I brought the little

toothbrush and paste I’d bought downstairs and brushed his

teeth. He took a sip of water, swished, and spit the

toothpaste out in the basin. Then I wiped his face with a wet

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wipe, scrubbed the last remains of the adhesive from his

chin. He lay back against the pillows, exhausted. He opened

his eyes, watched me, and I leaned over and kissed his lips.

“Minty and fresh,” I said, kissing him again. He looked at

me, and I watched his eyes fill up with tears, spill over.

“None of that,” I said, kissing his eyes, his nose, kissing his

mouth again. “Jesus, Jesse, I just kissed you ten times, and

your heart rate didn’t go up enough to alert the nurse. I’ll

have to do better next time.”

His voice was scratchy from the tube, and I could see it

hurt to swallow. I put the straw up to his mouth and let him

have a sip of water. “Is Granddad okay?”

“Yeah. He’s tired and upset, but he’s tough, Jesse. We

were watching the TV at home and saw you get shot.”

“Did he see the pictures? Of him in Vietnam, and my

dad?”

“Yeah. They made him cry a little bit, he was so proud of

you. Of what you were doing. I was, too.” He closed his eyes,

turned his head away. “Jesse, I have to be gone for a couple

of hours. Your granddad’s gonna stay with you.”

His fingers tightened on mine. “Where are you going?”

“I thought I’d go shag that fuckhead Sammy.”

He laughed, his eyes tired, drooping shut. “Did you get

the drawing I sent you?”

“Of the men you love? Yeah. It’s sitting on the kitchen

table.”

“Propped up by the ceramic chicken?”

“Yep.” I reached out, ran my fingers down his face. “The

three of us are just sitting on the porch, waiting for the boy

we all love to come home.”

“You still have the camper?”

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“It’s out behind the house.”

“Is there room for me in your Bambi?” His eyes were

closed, his voice slurred. I leaned over and kissed him again

and watched him breathe until I was sure he was asleep.

Out in the waiting room, The Original was looking

through a large-print edition of Reader’s Digest. “This

magazine,” he announced, “is twelve years old. I read the

whole damn thing before I thought to look at the date.”

“He’s asleep,” I said.

“Sam’s on his way up. If you don’t mind, Lorenzo, I’m

not going to watch. I’m not sure I can take much more of this

drama.”

“Thank you. Now if I could only convince the other

twenty-three million anticipated viewers to turn off their TVs,

I think we might get some work done. Don’t these people

have jobs to go to?”

“Not everybody can be a cartoonist.”

The elevator opened, and Sam stepped out. He was

carrying a red shirt covered in dry-cleaner’s plastic. I took it,

stripped off my T-shirt. “Hang on,” he said and reached up to

my chest, put some dark-red color on the scars with a little

makeup brush.

I looked down at his head, wishing I could crush his

balls with my cowboy boots. But Jesse wouldn’t like it. “I can

just take comfort in the fact that I will never have to set eyes

on your face again, after today.”

“Is that right, Jesusboy? Oh, sorry, Maryboy.” He stood

up and smiled. “We’re gonna try and play nice? For Jesse?”

The shirt was sand-washed silk, the color of old blood,

and it looked good against my dark-brown skin. Between the

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shirt and the makeup, TV audiences everywhere would be

able to see the scars in vivid living color.

We rode to the Mall in silence, in the back of a

limousine. When we got backstage at the peace march, Sam

morphed into my best friend, his hand on my elbow

whenever somebody happened to look our way.

“I think you’re a little bit too old for all this pretty-boy

fey crap you keep putting on.” Anyone looking at us would

see my friendly smile, just a couple of peaceful men talking

together.

“Yeah? I’m older than you, that’s true, Jesusboy. I’m

smarter than you, richer than you, better-looking, more

charming, and a whole hell of a lot better in bed than you.

Now and forever, cupcake. You won’t ever catch up with me,

no matter how fast you run.” He smiled and introduced me

to too many people to remember, and I could see the curious

glances thrown my way by the staff working backstage. Of

course, they had all see the painting.

The comedian finished his routine, and the crowd grew

quiet. Then the screen on the stage was filled with the image

of
Death of a Grievous Angel
, and the noise from the crowd

started. I waited to the count of five, then Sam gave me a

little shove in the back.

I walked out across the stage. Stood at the microphone

and waited for the noise to quiet. I could see that images of

me were projected on screens around the mall for people who

weren’t close enough to see and hear. I reached up, started

unbuttoning my shirt. I held it open, showed my scarred

bare chest to the world. I leaned forward and spoke into the

microphone. “I’m Staff Sergeant Lorenzo Maryboy.” I waited

for the world to look at my chest, to look at the painting

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behind me, the black shrapnel and the black wings. “I

wanted to let you know that my friend, the painter Jesse

Clayton, is going to live. That bullet didn’t come close to

touching his heart.”

I looked at them all in amazement, these strangers,

screaming and crying, hugging each other, pointing up at

me, with the image of my naked, crucified body behind them.

I didn’t understand what had happened, the strange

collective pain and triumph, but when I nodded and walked

off the stage, I knew that it was something good.

I could see Sam shaking hands and hugging the

organizers backstage. They all looked happy as pigs in shit.

We exchanged careful nods across the open backstage, just

to remind ourselves that we hated each other, then I slipped

out the door and caught a cab back to the hospital.

“It’s a madhouse out there,” the cabbie said. “Too many

coolers of beer among those peace marchers if you ask me.

I’m their designated driver when they can’t march anymore.”

He snuffled into his beard. “Hey, you hear some kid got

shot? A painter or something. I’ve got a theory about that.

They say it was just one, but I think there was a second

shooter.”

I closed my eyes, buttoned my shirt back up, and said a

prayer.
Please, Jesus, just let me get the old man and Jesse

back to Texas. Let me get my people home safely, and I’ll let

Jesse paint as many pictures of you and of me as he wants

to. I promise. You know what’s in his heart. Don’t let anybody

else hurt him, and I’ll watch over him all my days, and keep

him safe.

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Chapter Thirteen

JESSE was out of the ICU in a week. The sound of his

scream when they pulled out the chest tube was the final

straw for the old man, who took himself off to a hotel and

slept for eighteen hours.

I walked over half of DC, looking for a grocery store that

carried fresh strawberries, because Jesse said he wanted

some, and when I got back to his room, he was talking to

Sam. “Yeah? He did? No way, Sammy, I don’t believe he

threatened you.” I washed the strawberries in the sink,

pulled the container of Greek yogurt from the bag. “It’s on

YouTube? I’ll take a look. No. No, not yet, Sam, just….” I

held my hand out for the phone, but he turned away. “I’ve

got to go. Listen, just tell anybody who asks that I’m going