Sylvie's Cowboy (10 page)

“Yes, ma’am.” Diane clicked off.

Leslye, clutching her flask, left her desk
and stalked toward the shattered model as if it were a live
alligator. She pulled a chair close and sat, drinking and
staring.

…

The Pace Tower site was full of hard-hatted
construction workers and the sounds of men and machines in the
midst of a big, big job. More noise was added when Dan Stern’s car
pulled in and parked near the action. Walt’s red truck followed and
park beside Dan’s car. A man rushed over with hard hats for the two
men emerging from the vehicles.

Walt was stiff and slow as he eased himself
out of the truck. Dan met him with the two hard hats. Both men
strapped the protective helmets on their heads, poor complements to
their otherwise
Gentleman’s Quarterly
ensembles.

With a gesture, Dan directed Walt’s attention
to a sign proclaiming this the site of “Pace Tower.”

Walt nodded. “Pace. Named after Harry,
huh?”

“Yeah,” said Dan, admiring the unfinished
structure. “Harry lost his share, though. Signed it over as
collateral for a loan that went into default. Sad for Sylvie. It
would have been her share now.” He turned his attention from the
building to Walt. “You must like Sylvie a lot to take this meeting.
You darn sure don’t like me.”

Walt didn’t contradict him. He only shrugged
and said, “I came because it was Harry’s project. Sentimental
reasons, okay?”

Dan nodded and smiled his most sincere,
winning smile. “You know, Walt, you and I have had our differences,
but man to man, I feel I ought to warn you about Sylvie.”

“It’s okay. I think she’s actually starting
to like me. Some women do.”

“Sure, she likes you! She’s probably done her
homework just like I did. By now she knows the best kept secret in
south Florida. You, my friend, probably have more money than Harry
had!”

Anger touched Walt’s eyes, but he forced it
down hard. After a few heartbeats, he spoke with unnatural calm. “I
don’t know how much money Harry had. I just know he didn’t take any
of it with him. Wasn’t there something you wanted to show me?”

Dan was smart enough to grab the opportunity
for a change of subject. “Right this way,” he said, moving away
from the car. “Just a quick tour, then we’ll talk investment.”

Dan ushered Walt across the jumbled
construction site, keeping up a salesman’s chatter all the
while.

As they returned to the cars some time later,
Dan tried to add a personal note to their business discussion. “I’m
sorry you don’t feel up to playing in tomorrow’s polo match. I was
going to bet on
you
this time.” Dan laughed at his own
joke.

When Walt didn’t laugh, Dan sobered and
became solicitous. “But seriously, I hope you don’t hold any grudge
about that tragedy the other day. It really was an accident, you
know that.”

“I know exactly what it was,” Walt said
neutrally.

…

The next afternoon found Sylvie and Leslye in
their expensive reserved seats at the Polo Club. Sylvie held Maude
in her lap as the ladies admired the teams’ warm-ups. Leslye was a
little less than sober and was nursing a concession stand beer.
Sylvie’s gaze was concentrated on the field below when a shadow
fell across her.

A familiar male voice said, “Mind if I join
you?”

Both women looked up and saw Walt McGurk.
Leslye quickly turned back to watch the field. Sylvie looked Walt
over carefully as if judging his health. “I was looking for you
down there,” she said.

Walt slowly lowered himself into the seat
beside her. “Too old and too slow,” he said. “Especially after last
time.”

Maude wriggled out of Sylvie’s arms and into
Walt’s lap. Where she gave him kisses of greeting until he
physically subdued her.

The two teams took their positions on the
field, and the referee tossed in the ball to start the first
chukker. Horses lunged. Riders battled for the ball. A player
cornered it, and they were off and running toward the goal.

The crowd around them reacted to the start of
the first chukker, but Sylvie was preoccupied with Walt. “You’re
late. I was afraid something had happened to you on the
highway.”

Walt did not respond.

Both teams clustered at the north goal. It
appeared a score was certain, but Dan Stern stole the ball and
raced toward the south goal, hotly pursued. Just across the center
line he whacked the ball and sent it like a missile into the
goal.

The crowd applauded, and Leslye jostled
Sylvie. “Danny scored!”

Sylvie joined Leslye in applauding. She
noticed that Walt was scowling, not clapping. “I hope you don’t
hate Dan for what happened,” she said. “You’re both special to me.
I don’t like to see bad blood between my friends.”

Walt didn’t look at her. “Things happen,” he
said with a shrug. “It’s part of the game.” Then he turned to look
see her reaction when he told her, “In fact, I met with Stern
yesterday on business. He tried to sell me a project his firm is
building. You’d like the name: ‘Pace Tower.’” He cuddled Maude as
he talked, plainly oblivious to the match in progress a few yards
away.

“Yes, I know the project. My father started
it.”

“So I’m told. I’ll admit I tinkered with the
idea of buying Harry’s share back for you—just to see how you would
express your gratitude.”

Sylvie fidgeted, uncomfortable under his
gaze, pretending a greater interest than she felt in the polo
match. The crowd cheered a point scored—but Sylvie’s reaction was
just a half-second too late.

Walt continued, allowing her no relief from
his eyes. “But your Danny tells me you’ve got your own plans for
re-acquiring Harry’s assets. He talks like wedding bells are in
your future.” He spoke to Maude then, and his voice dripped with
irony. “ ‘Thrift! Thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak’d meats did
coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.’”

Sylvie turned to look at him. “That’s the
first time I’ve ever heard you quote Shakespeare. You’re pretty
amazing when you want to be.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” he said,
“except closer to my money—or Harry’s. That’s what you really want,
ain’t it?”

Sylvie reached out and lifted Maude from his
lap. Maude whined and struggled, kicking Walt in his sore ribs. He
let out an involuntary grunt of pain and his hand jerked to his
side.

Sylvie kept her eyes on anything but him.
“I’ve never pretended I wouldn’t enjoy being ... comfortable ...
again someday,” she said. “There’s nothing wrong with having
money.”

“No, but there’s something wrong with
lovin’
it. We’re supposed for
care
about people
and
use
money, not the other way around.”

On the field, at the center line, Dan Stern
and an opposing player fought viciously for possession of the ball.
Dan managed to flip it sideways to a teammate. Then he spun around
and met that same teammate’s pass, which set him up a long,
powerful shot into the goal.

In the grandstand, the crowd cheered. Leslye
lurched up, clapping, and bounced down again—aware of Walt and
Sylvie only briefly. “Dan’s wonderful today, isn’t he?” cried
Leslye.

Looking at Sylvie, Walt said, “I’m sure he’s
always wonderful.” He stood up, favoring his throbbing ribs. “I
bought the horse. But I won’t buy Pace Tower for you. And I hope
and pray I won’t buy the farm for you.”

“Do what you want,” Sylvie said, not looking
at him. “It’s your money.”

“‘Ay, there’s the rub,’ quoth Shakespeare’s
melancholy Dane. Yes, ma’am, it is my money.”

The crowd stood and cheered. Walt edged out
of the throng and left the stands. Sylvie looked straight ahead and
clutched Maude close.

Dan and his teammates exchanged
congratulatory high-fives as they returned from scoring a goal and
lined up for the toss-in. Dan was in his glory, ecstatic.

In the stands, Leslye sat swaying, eyes glued
to the field. “Dan will be throwing one heck of a victory party
tonight!” she told Sylvie.

“You go for both of us, Les. I think I’ll
turn in early.” Sylvie hugged her dog and stared at nothing.

By the time the match had ended and Sylvie
completed the drive from Palm Beach to Clewiston, evening was
settling into the canebrakes and cow pastures. Sylvie’s battered VW
bug rattled up to Clarice’s house; Sylvie yearned for a friendly
girl-talking visit. When she saw Walt’s pickup truck parked in
Clarice’s driveway, however, Sylvie shifted gears angrily and drove
away. She ignored the tears until they began dripping from her
chin, then she swiped a tissue vehemently across her face—nearly
giving herself a black eye.

Clarice was ironing a man’s shirt when she
looked out a window in time to see the dilapidated Volkswagen pull
away. Across the room, Walt lounged on the sofa, watching a
television newscast. Clarice folded the half-ironed shirt and
stacked it on top of a nearby basket of dry laundry.

On television, the newscaster droned, “This
section of highway twenty-seven has claimed five lives so far this
year, and authorities say that the stretch of road known locally as
‘Dead Man’s Curve’ is the worst in the state with its heavy
commercial—”

Clarice walked between Walt and the
television and deposited the laundry basket by the front door. She
turned to look at the screen and saw film of rescue workers and
tangled vehicles, traffic backed up in a long line, and all the
grisly aftermath of a horrible auto accident.

The newscaster continued, “—traffic, but
budget cutbacks and manpower shortages hamper more stringent
enforcement of speed limits and maintenance programs for the
hundreds of eighteen-wheelers that roll this road month after
month.

“In Orlando today, officials at Walt Disney
World announced—”

Clarice walked in front of Walt to the
television set and turned it off, stopping the newscaster in
mid-sentence. She planted her posterior on the television set and
confronted a drowsy, disinterested Walt. “That’ll be you someday
spread all over highway twenty-seven in pieces they’ll have to pick
up with a spoon. All because you were constantly jetting around
between here and wherever Harry’s little princess was holding
court.”

“Well, ain’t you got burrs under your saddle,
though. I been drivin’ these roads for years without any
trouble.”

Clarice came to kneel beside the sofa and
touch his hair with habitual tenderness. “Yeah, but you used to do
it with your eyes open.”

“I never seen you so moody before. You better
get your hormones checked or somethin’.”

“I want you out of my house,” she said,
slowly removing her fingers from his hair.

Walt suddenly wasn’t slouching any more.
“What?”

Clarice stood and moved away from him and the
sofa. “Out. Right now. I can’t stand it.” She pointed to the
laundry basket she had placed by the door. “And take your washin’
somewhere else from now on.”

Walt leaned his head against the back of the
sofa so he could look up at her. “What? And, what is it that you
suddenly ‘can’t stand’?”

“You. You and your, your pining.”

Walt moved too fast, reacted to pain in his
side, then eased himself up off the sofa. He moved toward Clarice,
but she stepped back—she would not let him close the gap between
them. He saw this and stopped. “Who’s pining?” he said.

“You. Like a moonstruck fool. Pining up a
blue streak.”

“Are your earbobs screwed in too tight or
somethin’? I ain’t doin’ no ‘pining,’ Clarice.”

“You are, Walter McGurk. Ain’t I done it
enough myself to know it when I see it?”

“You?” He looked quickly around the room as
if he would find clarity somewhere. “When? What for?”

Clarice stomped her foot and clinched her
fists at her side. “Hell’s bells, cowboy! Everybody in town knows I
been carrying a torch for years. What’d you think—I was trainin’
for the Olympics?”

He had no answer for that. He looked for his
hat, found it, and moved toward the door. Careful of his aching
ribs, he lifted the laundry basket. “I swear, Clarice, I don’t know
what you want from me.”

She resisted a strong urge to help him with
the basket. She knew she must stay away at this point or all would
be lost. “That’s all right. I think what I want from you already
belongs to somebody else. But there’s other fish in the sea. And I
can’t bait my hook with your truck parked in my yard. Out.”

He studied her face. Did she really mean it
was over? “Can I come back?”

She shrugged. “Maybe someday—when
all
the Paces are dead. Really dead.”

Walt went out the door and closed it softly
behind him.

Clarice listened to the truck door slamming,
the engine starting, and forced herself not to go to the door, not
to watch through the window. Old habits died hard.

…

Walt’s day was made complete when an evening
thundershower drenched him on the way home. He ran from his truck
to the tack room of the barn, where he kept his rain slicker.
Donning the slicker, he ran through puddles and roaring downpour to
the house.

A light from the hallway showed the two dogs
lying near Walt’s favorite living room chair. Lightning flickered
across the living room windows. Thunder boomed outside.

Walt entered, shook off his wet slicker and
Stetson, and hung them on a wall hook. He approached his chair with
an armload of mail he had collected on his way in from the barn. He
reached to turn on the reading lamp. Click, but no light. Click and
click again, but the lamp was dead.

Thunder and rain continued outside.

Walt searched for the problem and found it at
the end of a cord hanging ragged-ended from its wall plug. Severed.
He wagged the ruined cord at Maude and Butch, lying on the floor
nearby. Maude hid her face, ashamed. Walt slapped the broken cord
down on the end table and stalked out of the room.