You're Always in the Last Place You Look (32 page)

He lay completely still, his nose mere inches from my foot as I surveyed the mess. There wasn’t any possible way to free him without hurting him. Just then I remembered the Leatherman tool hanging on the key rack in the kitchen. I ran to retrieve it, calling to Ruger the whole way, letting him know I wasn’t leaving him.

When I re-entered the room he gave me an annoyed look, as if to say,
you didn’t have to scream at me the whole time
.
I knew you’d be back
.

I flipped open the tool, and felt a muscle or two unfurl as I spotted the wire cutters. Extracting his toes, then foot would probably still hurt, but this would prevent untold agony—and hopefully prevent him from biting me. Keeping an eye on him, I crouched down, snipping the first wire. His head jerked up, but other than watching what I was doing, he didn’t voice any complaint. I clipped the other side of the wire, and it fell to the floor. Ruger whined, blood trickling down his foot.

I made quick work of the second wire. Ruger, realizing his foot was free, began struggling in earnest, trapping his hock within the coil, and sending a lamp, picture, bottle of pills, and a book toppling off the nightstand.

“Shit,
whoa
, Ruger. Stop,
stop
!” Blood dribbled to the carpet as the thin iron filleted the fine skin. He began crying, jaws snapping. He was going to slice right through his flexor tendon.

Seizing his leg above the hock, I pushed down, felt his teeth on my ankle, screamed, and twisted his leg free. I looked at the blood on my hands, noticed the warmth soaking down my inner thigh, felt the dampness spreading over my ankle, and everything spun as my legs went numb.

Throwing my arm over my face, I groaned. Man the back of my head hurt. Didn’t Smitty believe in a carpet pad?
Did I faint
? Yep, I think I had.

Ruger whimpered, his ears flat against his head as he crawled over. I looked where he was looking—because it wasn’t at me—and saw the wet spot on the grey carpet. Peeing ourselves in times of extreme stress seemed to be something we had in common.

I scratched his neck. “It’s okay, buddy. I won’t tell, if you don’t.”

He
harrumphed
in agreement, then settled his head heavily on my thigh. I couldn’t believe I was petting the beast, yet we
had
just survived a traumatic experience together. I rubbed his floppy ear and, pushing into my hand, he groaned. Okay, maybe he wasn’t
all
evil.

*

Owning livestock means you become as deft at patching up your animals as most vets. Ruger hobbled behind, following me into the kitchen, and headed right over to his water bowl. He drank it dry, then shoved it with his nose, sending it clattering across the hardwood floor.

“Sorry, buddy. That’s enough for now.” I squatted, glancing over his injuries. His two middle toes were probably broken, but they were straight, just badly swollen with the skin chaffed and split in several spots. I knew from breaking three of my own toes after running the barn door over my foot, that doctors only taped them together, then sent you on your merry way. I seriously doubted a vet would even bother with taping Ruger’s.

I went into the hall bath in search of medical supplies. I stared at the conglomerate of pill bottles, lotions, and foot powders filling the medicine cabinet, many of the labels dark yellow from age. I hoped Smitty didn’t still take any of them. I turned a bottle and noticed the medication was for his wife, Beatrice Smitt. The ones for Harold Smitt had braille labels, thank God.

I found a discolored box of gauze pads and an ancient metal tube of bacitracin in the lower drawer. The sticker on the pads said 89 cents. Talk about antiques. I couldn’t imagine gauze going bad, but I’d make sure to use a lot of ointment just in case. No tape, but I remembered seeing a roll of Vetwrap in the glovebox of my truck last night. I cringed, remembering the date with Albert tonight. I really wasn’t in the mood right now.

As I turned I almost crashed into Ruger lumbering in the doorway watching me. Shimmying past him, I noticed the specks of crimson he was leaving everywhere he went, and wondered what the chances were that Smitty would have any hydrogen peroxide to clean up all the blood.

After retrieving the blue camo Vetwrap from the truck, I went to work on him in the kitchen. He proved to be a good patient, even with my hands shaking through the whole ordeal. I guess there was still some underlying fear present.

Throwing my pants and underwear in with a load of towels, I checked my ankle, and only found a tiny purple bruise where a tooth had obviously pressed too hard. Not a speck of blood, and the dampness on my sock appeared to be slobber. I glanced at him, amazed he hadn’t bitten me, because really, he had every right. Looking at him watching me, his head off-kilter, I actually felt my fear of Ruger fade. Not my fear of dogs in general, just this particular one.

I went to work half-naked, but smelling better. The hydrogen peroxide—a pleasant find under the sink in the bathroom—made quick work of the blood scattered down the hall and in the bedroom. I put the bed back in order, then re-set the lamp on the nightstand. Retrieving the picture, I turned it over to check the glass, and it seemed to jump from my hands. I managed to catch it before it hit the floor again, and slid down the side of the bed until I was sitting on the carpet. The hand-crafted wood frame contained a colored drawing of Zane on Smitty’s porch with Ruger leaning against his legs as they both looked off into the distance—a perfect self-portrait.

I felt the quake begin in my chest, and travel outward. My hand trembled as I reached for him, stopping just before touching the glass. I’d forgotten how handsome he was, how he affected me, how much I really did love him, and how much I truly missed him.

Ruger sat down, and leaned against me. Hugging the picture to my chest, I wrapped my other arm around his short, thick neck. “Why did he leave us?” I whispered. “I don’t know who I am without him, you know?” Ruger whined, conking his head against mine. I choked on the emotions gathering steam, threatening to overtake me. “God I never imagined it could hurt this much.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

After Ruger and I spend several minutes commiserating, probably me more than him, I managed to pull myself together and clean the kitchen and hall bathroom. As I was pulling my jeans on, I heard the door open, and Smitty’s cane smack the frame as he entered.

“Ruger, what are you doing out? Where’s Master Simmon’s?”

I buttoned up my jeans just as Smitty bellowed, “Gabriel?”

“I’m here.” I exited the laundry room, and made my way through the sunflower yellow kitchen. Such a gaudy color—not that Smitty could see it. That had me wondering if he knew what the frame on his nightstand held.
Of course he does
. Zane had probably explained every line, every detail to him.

“Is
here
on top of the fridge?” Smitty called jovially.

“Noo,” I said right in front of him, making him jerk in surprise. “Sorry.” I went on to tell him what happened, and he kept grousing teasingly through his grin, thrilled we had worked out our
differences
—as if I had a choice—despite Ruger injuring himself.

I left him with his cookies and a promise to come change Ruger’s bandage in three days.

Sloppily pouring myself into my truck, I looked at my phone. I had three bars, so I texted Gary, too wrung out to talk, let alone go anywhere except my bed. My head throbbed, and the discomfort in my chest was still present.

Gary texted right back;
Cm on dude
.
Yu gotta cm
.

Sorry
.
2 wrcked
.
Tell Al 2 call me later
.

I shut off my phone and headed home, feeling defeated.

Mom’s car was gone when I pulled in, and the horses were fed. The note on the table explained they were playing bridge with some of their friends. Shoving a piece of cheese in my mouth, I listened to the message on the answering machine in case it was a parishioner in need of my dad.

“Yo, it’s Chuck, are you there? I’m in your driveway. I don’t see your truck so you must be gone. I, uhm, found one of Zane’s sketch pads in the horse trailer, and, uhm, you know...anyway, I’m leaving it inside the door of your LQ. Oh, and I think I have one of his socks. I don’t know if you want that too, but it’s here. Uhm, I looked at the drawings...and, uhm, I just want to say I’m sorry.”
Sorry for what
? He wasn’t the one who had been kicked to the curb, nor had he done the kicking. I erased the message, then sat down at the table, resting my head on my arms, and shook as if everything inside me was coming apart.

For weeks my facade had held, my anger supporting me, pushing me through the day until I was so exhausted I couldn’t feel anything. But a few things linked to Zane had me coming apart in a spectacular fashion. Like a pissed off bull I could feel the ache gaining strength, the sharpness goring me as it broke through the walls I had so carefully built around it.

The heavy rolling door banged against the barn, causing me to flinch. Raising my head I noticed through the window above the kitchen sink, the cherry tree in the back yard bent against the wind. Rising, I went to let the horses in, and close up the barn.

After settling AJ and Grace into their stalls for the night, and securing the barn, I found myself standing at my truck, Zane’s bandana pressed against my nose. Though faint, it still smelled like him, and the scent triggered memory after memory in no discernable order. Blurry-eyed and overtaken, I made my way to the horse trailer. I retrieved Zane’s cloth-covered sketchbook, and clutching it to my chest, I collapsed on the couch. The memories of him had finally caught me.

*

Shielding my swollen eyes from the early morning sun, something slid off my chest and hit the floor. My face as well as the side cushion were damp, and I wondered if the flood of tears that had overwhelmed me last night had followed me through sleep.

Dropping my hands, I looked down at the geometric design across the cloth cover of Zane’s sketchbook. With only my index finger pointed, I leaned down and flipped it open as if it might bite me at any moment. The first page was a rather clinical rendition of the front of the school. I turned the page, and something that sounded half-whimper, half-moan escaped my sore throat when I saw the drawing.

I was sitting in Science lab, head leaning on my hand, either bored or wistful...I’d have to say the latter considering the date in the lower right corner. He had drawn this before that first night we spent together at the rodeo. He hadn’t done this in class, or at least not that I had noticed. And the fact that he could remember every nuance so vividly—including my wild cowlick above my temple—was incredible.

As I turned the pages my hands began to shake. The day someone spit chew all over the handle on my locker...the time I had to cut the gum out of my hair in the boy’s bathroom...another of me sprawled in the hall when someone had tripped me...sitting alone in the lunchroom when Lily was in Seattle—when had he seen all this?

The book was full of images of my life no one but I knew about. Some were drawn with extreme care, while others were rough, dark lines as if he had been angry when he drew them. Maybe he had been. I wiped my nose on my sleeve.
When had I started crying again
?

The final rendering—Harry’s field when it all began for me. I was leaning into him, intent on the task of stinger removal, and Zane, eyes closed, head tipped down and towards me, had his lip ring snared between his teeth. The page carried a red X across it, and in a hard scrawl around the edge of the page, over and over, were the words Love kills!

A sob broke through the ache burning inside me. This was the prologue to our story. One I hadn’t even known existed. He’d been watching me. But why? Why spend all that time—why see me, why love me, why let me love you when you planned on leaving me from the beginning? I wanted to chuck the damn think across the small space, but I knew that wouldn’t provide any answers. The only one who could answer
those
questions was long gone, and obviously didn’t want me to find him.

*

“I thought you had already left?” Dad glanced up from his coffee, then canted his head, concern washing over his face. “Did something happen? Are you okay?”

I shook my head, knowing my face was puffy, my eyes red from hordes of crying. I laid the sketchpad on the table. “Chuck found that.” My fingers caressed the black and ivory cover for a moment before leaving it to pour myself some much needed coffee.

“
Ohhh
...” he exhaled, knowing exactly what it was, but having no idea what it held, that was until he carefully flipped open the cover.

Dad’s fingers rubbed his mouth, his brow knitting together over what he found inside; the pictorial of my less than perfect life. I sat down across from him, sipping my coffee, and watching the flurry of emotions cross his face.

When he reached the final page, he looked up. “I don’t understand...” He tapped the last drawing. “Wasn’t this the first day you met him?”

I nodded. “It was. I don’t think he meant for me to ever see that.” My voice roughened, and I gazed, unseeing, through the window above the kitchen sink as I worked the lump in my throat free. “I think he intended to tell a story. One just for him.”

Dad thumbed back through the pages, nodding slowly. “He managed that.” His hazel eyes met mine, sadness mired among the confusion. “Did this all happen?”

I looked at my hands clasping the John Deere coffee mug and nodded. I wasn’t exactly embarrassed, but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for my dad. He thought he knew me, yet things kept surfacing that challenged his parental wisdom. Ignored, disliked, transparent, bullied, gay. None of which a parent ever wanted for their child. All of which had befallen me.

Dad turned his gaze away, letting out a slow breath. “Who did all this to you?”

I shook my head. “Does it matter?” I was confident Chuck’s apology related to at least a few of the events Zane had witnessed. However, he had saved Zane, and to me that made us as even as we could be.

“No, I guess it doesn’t matter. I just—are you okay? And I don’t mean because of this.” He pushed the sketchbook into the middle of the table.

“I think I will be. Now that I’ve let my emotions wreak havoc, maybe I can finally let him go, find a way to start over.”

A tender, yet boastful smile crept across his face. “Such a wise son I have.”

“You raised me.” I held my mug up in a solemn salute, and he did the same.

“What about Al, are you going to see him again?”

I shot him an ironic look. “You remembered
his
name! But no, I’m not ready for him yet. I think I need to start with someone more my speed. You know...scared. Still with a toe in the closet, vestal virgin—that sort of thing.” I shrugged while my father tried not to chuckle.

*

“You and Chuck got something going? He’s been weird around you all week.” Tye took a sip of apple juice, his eyes bluntly staring at Chuck’s back.

“No. And I wouldn’t let him hear you say that.” I advised, knowing calling Chuck gay, whether he was or not, probably wasn’t wise. Chuck had avoided me as much as he could since dropping off Zane’s sketchbook. It made working with him strange, and I knew I needed to talk to him.

Tye flipped his hand. “Eh, I can take him.”

I laughed, and Tye’s brows rose. It was the first time I had laughed around him since Zane left. “I think Chuck’s feeling remorse for a few past offenses.” How I found out about them caused me to take a deep breath, the sweet scent of hay like a hug from an old friend calming me. I glanced over the vibrant green field almost clean of bales, then beyond to the magnificent Sawtooths rising grey-blue above the plains. Zane was right. I didn’t belong anywhere but here. Yet he knew, given the chance, I would have followed him. Despite understanding that, I still found it hard to forgive him.

“Hey, Gabe, what’s wrong? Did Chuck do something to you?” The concern in Tye’s voice brought my tears to my attention.

I wiped my eyes with the edge of my grey t-shirt. “No. Anything Chuck might have done I forgave that day at Sharky’s. I guess he deserves to know that.” I stood, glancing down at Tye. “Don’t worry about me. Trust me when I tell you I’m going to be okay.”

Walking over, I tapped Chuck on the shoulder. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He sighed at the half of sandwich in his hand, then got up, finishing the mound of meat and bread in two bites.

I led him to the stand of apple trees, and glanced up at him, realizing, although twice as wide, he wasn’t any taller than Zane. No longer the monster I always thought him to be, the anxiety I had felt around him was nothing more than a distant memory now.

“Thank you for bringing over the sketchbook.”

He nodded, his chin tucked against his Tough Enough bull rider t-shirt. It was weird to see him so solemn. I was used to a much louder, more annoying, and confident Chuck.

“Listen, whatever happened in high school is behind us. I mean, we were just stupid kids right? Besides, you stepped in and saved Zane that day. I feel I owe you for that.”

He shook his head adamantly. “No, what I did was reprehensible.”

Wow
, that was a big word for the super jock, and I was less impressed and more shocked that he used it correctly.

He looked at me, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “I miss him too, you know.”

Now my eyes narrowed, the confusion over their relationship coming forward. “What
exactly
went on between you two?”

He blinked at my spiteful tone. “He was just...cool, ya know. I gave him pot, and he helped me fix the floor in the bunkhouse.” Chuck rolled his eyes, finally catching my drift. “I didn’t even know he was
gay
until he came out of your trailer at Filer.”

My hands hit my hips. “And why would coming out of my trailer make him gay?”

He tipped his head. “Really? Everyone knew, dude. And when Zane showed up—it was the first time anyone had seen you smile in fucking years.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he focused on something over my right shoulder. “I didn’t know—you know,
understand
, until I saw those drawings.” His grey eyes flicked to my face. “I was an asshole.”

“You were. But admitting it is half the battle.”

He chuckled. “I suppose it is. So, we good?”

I nodded. “Yeah, we’re good.”

“Cool.” He held his fist up and I bumped it. Chuck and I would never be friends, but this was a big step towards being adults. Chuck grabbed Tim—a sophomore whose voice hadn’t finished changing yet and was forever cracking—around the neck and gave him a noogy. And just maybe if Chuck kept working at it, someday he’d
actually
become an adult.

*

“Hello? Smitty?” Pulling my key out, I closed the door just as Ruger exploded into the front room. “Hey, buddy, slow down.” I dropped my head back and sighed upon seeing he had chewed off the bandage on his foot—again.

“What are you doing here?” Smitty asked, his hand patting the corner of the wall.