Mister Boots (9 page)

He says “Butterfingers” when I drop things, but I'm surprised he doesn't get disgusted with me. All of a sudden he's patient. He said he never loses his temper; that's not true, he did lots of times, but he doesn't now. He says “Good boy” a couple of times, and gives me a man-to-man punch on the shoulder.

Then he tells me he has a nice surprise for me if I practice—something he got for me in town—something I'll like. I wonder if I will.

 

 

And then, after all this getting talked at in the morning and taught things all afternoon, right after beans, Mister Boots . . . even Mister Boots takes me out to talk to me. I never had a day like this before.

He wants to go out a ways because it's his first time really away from the house, so we walk down by the irrigation ditch where the grass is long and juicy. Mister Boots likes it there even though, in his present form, he won't be eating any of it. We sit on it instead—at first almost on a killdeer nest. Boots sees the mother bird doing the broken-wing trick to make us come after her, and then he sees the nest and we move a bit farther down. I lie back and look at the moon coming up from behind the mountains and get ready for a lot of his usual nonsense. His voice is soft and breathy, and he speaks thoughtfully, slowly, like he's thinking hard, and I guess he is.

“I want to say it properly,” he says.

His words make me sleepy—in a nice way. They make me look around at the hills and the mountains, and then closer in, at blades of grass.

We watch the moon come up till it shines on Mister Boots so you can almost see Moonlight Blue underneath his humanness—his face, so pale, his mane blowing. I'm glad Jocelyn didn't let our father cut it.

“Your sister says I should convince you, but convincing doesn't convince. If you need to make a mistake, you should make it. But your sister said to try.”

“You always try. But I need to ask you something. It's important. I need to know your intentions.”

“What intentions?”

“We don't just . . . you know human beings don't . . . well, stand . . . mount and then wander off and then mount somebody else. I mean what are you going to do about my sister?”

“Love her. Isn't that enough? Is that enough?”

“No.”

And then I tell him all about marriage, which makes him thoughtful and sad (not that he doesn't look thoughtful and sad all the time anyway).

“I was told of it, but no one ever told me as well as you do now.”

“You have to stay with her till death do you part. You have to tell her that, and you have to make money.”

“Ah,” he says, “money. I'm not qualified for that, but I do know loving.”

He looks so sad, I almost tell him how I found the money, and that I'll give him half, or all of it if he needs it, but then I think I won't tell quite yet. I might need that money for something special. What if I have to buy Moonlight Blue from the glue-factory people? And I don't even know how much money there is.

Then he says another Mister Boots kind of thing. “Listen,” he says. “Listen.”

But there's hardly a sound. The wind has died down and the meadow larks are gone; the ditch water is stagnant and still.

“There's nothing.”

“That's it. There's nothing. Listen.”

 

 

First thing the next morning, our father gets me out of bed, which never happened around here before. Since when did anybody care? I get up pretty early on my own, but this is even earlier. I know he's doing it on purpose to teach me a lesson of some sort, though what kind of a lesson is it if I already always get up early? I like dawn. It's my favorite time.

He has me sit up on the kitchen table and cuts my hair into a real boy's haircut. Better than the haircuts my sister gives me, and he has clippers, which we don't. (They're probably horse clippers for his fancy horse.) It takes a long time. I itch from sitting, and I itch from the hair bits all over me. Our father doesn't let me wash off. After the haircut he sets me to practicing my finger exercises and card shuffling.

 

 

Every so often I have this thought in the back of my mind (like when I thought about owning a car): I wonder if a woman can get to be a magician. I've never known a woman to do much more than the things Jocelyn and Mother did. Mostly I don't let myself think about it because, who knows, I might just stay like this—maybe never have to get breasts and all that. Besides, being ten lasts a whole year.

 

 

The next morning, first thing, our father goes out to water his horse and give it some grain and it's gone, halter unbuckled, just hanging there. Our father's saddle and saddlebags are neatly slung over the porch rail. I'm surprised this didn't happen earlier. Of course Mister Boots gets around a lot better now.

Our father stamps up and down, muttering to himself about what a valuable horse it is.

He checks for hoofprints, wanders all over in big circles shading his eyes, comes in and slams the screen door, and then opens it just so he can slam it again. He glares around at everything.

But that poor horse stood there a good bit of three days, without a rubdown (except by me) nor a chance to roll in any good dust. We don't have a corral to put him in, but we could have hobbled him with a soft rope or somebody's belt and kept an eye on him so he didn't hop too far. Or we could have asked the neighbors to let him go out in their pastures with their horses.

All of us three know who did it, but our father thinks . . . not only thinks, he
knows
it's me. I wish it had been. I should have done it first thing. I just wasn't paying attention.

“That was a valuable horse,” our father says—for about the sixteenth time.

“I did that.” I'm glad to take the blame. It would have been a good thing to do.

Except then Boots says, “He didn't.”

“Yes I did. How'm I ever going to learn self-discipline if I don't own up?”

“But you didn't.”

“It's all right,” I say. “Our father knows I did it.”

“Damn tootin'.”

Our father grabs me by my ear and pushes me outside and around the back, where he pulls up a tomato stake. That's going to break. It's too dry. So then he takes off his belt. At least he holds it by the buckle.

“You've been itching for this ever since I got here.”

Boots is right behind us, as fast as if his legs were all well. And then it happens again, except, again, I don't get to see it. I wanted to so badly, but Boots is behind me. I only see our father instead.

First there's something big that cuts off the sun and shades both our father and me. Something that makes our father stare, blinking, right up where the sun had been. There's the sound of hooves again. Dust flies up. There's a swish of black mane at the corner of my eye. . . .

Our father drops the belt and goes down on his knees. I turn around and here's Mister Boots already as himself—perfectly ordinary, skinny old Boots, out of breath, but looking just like himself: dignified and sad. We watch the dust settle—all of us breathing hard.

Then our father comes back to normal, gets up, and puts his belt around his paunch. “I could use that trick,” he says. His voice is only a little bit shaky. “I've never seen that done. I know it's your secret, but I'll pay and I'll give you credit and a percentage every time I use it. Or you can come along with us, me and my son here. Is Boots your first name or last name or nickname? As a stage name it won't do.”

Doesn't our father see who Boots is even yet?

“How about calling yourself White Lightning? That would fit with the act, but, well . . . I have to admit you shook me up a bit.”

Boots, obedient horse again, speaks as prey to predator. “Boots is my regular name, but if you need me to, I'll change it.”

Sometimes it seems he's been too “broke” to be a person.

 

 

My sister changes her tactics about me.

We go back in and sit as we usually do: our father, in the big soft chair; Mister Boots and my sister on the couch, touching knees. I'll have to keep an eye on them. Touching knees is all right, but no hanky-panky.

My sister says, “How about if we all go? I won't let Bobby go off alone with you, and that's that. If . . .” She hesitates and then says, “. . . he. If he goes, we all go. We'll follow along behind if you won't let us travel with you.”

“All of you?” Our father leans back so his stomach sticks out even more. “What a mess!” He says “Still” a few times. And “Well” a few more, and then he gets all dreamy again and smiles a little secret smile, not the usual one with the big teeth. “White Lightning,” he says, talking to himself. “Well now, Mister Boots, if you'll do that illusion of yours, I'll take you all along. You don't even have to tell me how you do it. I'll take you, that is, if you let me cut your hair, like I did the boy's.”

Jocelyn jumps up and starts with all those, No, no, no's again. “You can't. It doesn't work that way.”

“What is he, like Samson?”

“Sort of.”

“Bullshit, if he comes with us, I cut his hair. That's all there is to it. It all comes back to discipline.”

“He could tie it up in a . . . ponytail, but he can't cut it.”

I'm thinking, Why not? Except she's right; he wouldn't look near as nice as a horse without his wild black mane. And for sure my sister doesn't care what he looks like as a person. I'll bet when she looks at him, she always sees Moonlight Blue.

“And Mister Boots, if you interfere with my disciplining of this boy all the time, he'll end up becoming a criminal. Look at me. You think I wasn't whipped? It's just like with horses. ‘The more you beat 'em the better they be.' Ever heard that? It's not only about dogs and women and walnut trees.”

Boots throws his head again, up and down, and it's not a yes. The reins are too tight, and he wants to shake the whole idea out of his head.

“I presume that's a yes.”

(Boots could take his shirt off and show his back—his whole body actually. Of course that will just be one more proof to our father of how well whipping works, because Boots is a nice creature, horse or man.)

Our father gets his dreamy look again. “Lassiter and Son,” he says. “And Magical Horse.”

I wonder if Boots can change himself when he feels like it.

But has everybody forgotten our father's horse is missing? I guess they have. I'd like to get out of here, so I say, “How about if I go get your horse for you? Since it's all my fault. I know every single place where a horse might want to be.”

I guess our father's afraid I'll never come back, except why would I not when I want to go with him so badly? Or maybe our father thinks I'll find the horse and then go off and sell him, which would be a good idea, but I could never get away with it around these small towns. Everybody would know. And anyway, I have a lot of money already.

But instead of me, it's our father who goes out on one of the neighbors' horses. He doesn't ask if he can borrow one any more than I do. It's bad, though, because, even though he goes out rattling a pail of grain, Rusty is the only horse that will let him catch her. She's much too small for a man his size. I could have caught any of them just by standing still, not looking at them. They all come to me.

While he's gone my sister goes on with her knitting. I still haven't told her I found the money, so she probably thinks she has to keep at it.

Our father sweats up poor little Rusty and himself and doesn't find his horse. I knew he wouldn't.

“I guarantee I can find him. And I'm not going to run away. Why would I, since I want to go with you?”

He's all hot and bothered. I can see he wants to say his favorite bad words, but instead he says, “All right, all right, all right.”

(Houdie, that's his horse's name. It's a silly name for such a fancy horse. Except his real name is Houdini's Escape.)

“So what'll you give me when I bring him back safe and sound?”

“A spanking if you don't, that's what. And you'd better come back, toot sweet. And while you're at it, don't forget to bring back the pistol.”

 

 

I'm so glad to get out of there and off by myself I think maybe I really will run away. I run out shouting “Yay, yay” and “Yes, yes, yes, yes,” yelling like I do when I want to scare people.

I get to go get a horse that isn't old and ordinary. I don't have to use grain or carrots and go out with a halter hidden behind my back. (Since our father's horse doesn't know me, I do bring a lead rope for bringing him home just in case.)

I'll need a horse. (Not Rusty. She's too tired.) I walk out and around like I do and then stand still. Pretty soon every horse gets curious about what I'm doing there. They know me and come to greet me. They know I'll take them through the gate and we'll go have fun. We usually go where it's nice and grassy, and I always let them graze in juicy new fresh spots.

I really do know where our father's horse is. I like that place myself. There's a little stream that comes down from the mountains. That stream feeds the little pond they've dammed off at the neighboring ranch. Once you're far enough up, there's blackberry bushes. The berries taste better than those from any other place. I always brought some back to Mother.

Tears come—because of thinking about Mother—and then, right after I get over one batch, along comes another batch, because if I go off with our father, maybe I won't ever be here again, and this is one of my favorite places.