All Hat (20 page)

“I was thinking I might drive into town for a drink,” Ray said. “You two up to it?”

“Not me,” Pete said. “I think I'll turn in early. I want to plow that corn ground tomorrow, before we get wet weather and I have to leave it 'til spring.”

“I'll go,” Chrissie said.

She lit a joint on the drive into town and offered it over to Ray, who declined. She took a couple of heavy pulls on it, then pinched it off with her forefinger and thumb and put it back in her shirt pocket. She was wearing her black jeans and one of Pete's cotton work shirts. She looked good in the old man's duds, but to Ray's eyes she'd never looked anything but good.

They went to the Tap. It had been a country-and-western joint when Ray had been a kid. He and his friends used to go there and get into fights with the local crowd. One Saturday night Ray and two of his friends had ridden their dirt bikes into the place, causing a general uproar and a lot of broken glasses and bruised knuckles.

Ray and Chrissie sat at a booth across the room from the bar. The waitress was short and covered with more tattoos than a fleet of sailors. They declined menus and ordered beer.

The band was playing Merle Haggard.

“I guess this isn't exactly your kind of music,” Ray said as they waited for their beer.

“Hey, I know every word to ‘Okie from Muskokee,'” Chrissie said. “My dad was a country freak; he played mandolin in a band called the Grand River Ramblers.”

The waitress brought two mugs of draft, and Chrissie insisted on paying.

“So you gonna dance with me or not?” she asked.

“Or not.”

“I figured that.”

Ray took a drink of beer and then leaned back and had a glance around the room. There was nobody there that he recognized. Glancing toward the bar, he caught a glimpse of himself and Chrissie in the mirror. A perfectly normal couple, out having a beer.

“So what's the story on Pete—he's broke, isn't he?” Chrissie asked.

“I don't know that he's broke,” Ray said. “He's had a stretch of bad luck, that's all. He'll be all right.”

“I wish I could help him out. I like the old guy.”

“He's a good man.”

“So what can I do to help him?”

“There's nothing you can do to help him. He wouldn't let you if you could.”

“You cowboys are all the same.”

“Pete's the cowboy.”

“Oh no. You are too; you just don't know it.”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“It's both,” Chrissie decided after a moment. “Doesn't matter; you're stuck with it either way. What'd you think—you were just some normal guy?”

Which made Ray look in the mirror again. The couple was still there, but the image had somehow changed.

“I guess not,” he admitted. “What about you?”

“Shit. I wouldn't know normal if it came up and bit me on the ass.”

*   *   *

Homer started the new medication on Saturday, and by Tuesday afternoon he was feeling well enough to go to the golf course and play nine holes. Harvey Jones picked him up and told Etta he'd have him home by supper.

Etta had worked the night before, and she was happy to have the house to herself for a change. She did some vacuuming and washed the bedclothes and cleaned out the fridge. Then she changed and drove into town to the bank. She spent a discouraging half hour with the manager and then bought a take-out coffee and headed out of town. As she drove she began to consider Father Regan's advice to go back to teaching. She'd always suspected that at some point she would do just that, but that point had been rather indistinct, a dot on the horizon. She knew that she couldn't run the farm and teach at the same time.

She hadn't counted on Homer getting sick. He'd always been a bull of a man—not particularly ambitious or admirable or even responsible—but a strong physical presence. His weaknesses in other areas, however, had left him with an inordinate amount of debt, and now that debt had fallen into her lap like a lead weight.

Something else she hadn't counted on.

On the way home she stopped at Pete Culpepper's place. Driving down the lane, she saw Ray standing along the corral, his arms resting over the top rail. He turned when he heard the car tires on the gravel driveway. If he was surprised—or pleased, or anything else—to see her, he didn't show it.

She pulled up and got out and opened the trunk. There were two glass gallon jugs of apple cider inside. She lifted them out and carried them over to Ray and set them down.

“What's this?” he asked.

“Appreciation for roof repair,” she said.

As she spoke a dark-haired woman came around the corner of the barn and into the corral, riding a bay mare at an easy lope. She came close to the fence where they stood and then at the last moment veered the animal off. The woman sat the western saddle like she was born to it. She took the mare around the corral once at a canter, then slowed to a walk. Etta watched her for a moment. She was a pretty girl. Etta raised her sunglasses briefly to give her the once-over, or rather to let Ray know she was giving her the once-over. She glanced at Ray before she let the shades drop back into place.

“Pete not around?” she asked.

“He went in to the bank,” Ray said. “He'll want to make applejack out of that cider.”

“You can do what you want with it.”

Etta walked over and turned her back to the corral, leaned against the rail there. She made a pretense of looking out over the pasture field, but in truth she was looking at him. He was leaner than when she'd last seen him. He needed a haircut, and he had a couple days' growth on his cheeks, partly concealing the fresh scar on his chin—the scar he'd received in jail, how she had no idea, but she was sure that it involved him standing up for something or somebody, railing against some slight that another man might have had sense enough to let alone. His hands where they hung over the fence rail were calloused and marked with small cuts here and there.

“Still in the roofing business?” she asked.

“Yup,” he said, looking at her. “How're you doing, Etta? I see you got the old tractor for sale.”

“I haven't had any buyers yet.” She gestured toward the corral. “So who's Annie Oakley?”

“Name's Chrissie Nugent. She's a jock at Fort Erie, rides for Pete when he's got a horse to run.”

“What's she do the rest of the time?”

“Here she comes,” Ray said. “Why don't you ask her?”

Etta turned to see Chrissie leading the bay by the reins to where they stood. She was long-legged and loose in her jeans and her boots, and she was watching Etta openly as she approached. When she got to them she gave the reins a half hitch around the top rail and then stepped back to unfasten the cinch on the saddle. Ray introduced the two women, and Chrissie offered her hand over the fence rail.

“It's dirty,” she said. “I hope you don't mind.”

“I don't mind a little dirt,” Etta said, shaking hands.

Chrissie pulled the saddle from the mare and set it and the blanket on the fence. Then she climbed through the rails, and, outside the corral now, she hoisted the saddle to her shoulder and carried it into the barn. When she passed Ray, Etta saw her run her hand across his back.

Ray shot a glance at Etta and then decided that it would be a good time to kneel down to have a better look at the cider.

“This is all right,” he said. “Been a long while since I've had fresh cider.”

“Right,” she said. “Well, I better be going. Say hi to Pete for me.'

“He should be back any time,” Ray said, straightening up. “Why don't you stick around, say hello yourself?”

“No, it looks like you're busy.”

“I'm not doin' a damn thing. Why would you say that?”

“Well, you've got fat horses and pretty girls to tend to. Why aren't you working anyway?”

“We're between jobs; we start a new subdivision Monday.… I told you, she's a jock who rides for Pete.”

“Only you could turn up a jockey who just happens to be a pretty girl, Ray.”

He tried not to smile. “I'm just fortunate, I guess.”

Chrissie came out of the barn then, carrying a nylon halter in her hand. Going back through the corral, she saw the cider on the ground. Her eyes lit up. “Where that come from?”

“Etta brought it,” Ray said.

Chrissie slipped the bridle from the mare and looped it over a fence post. Then she put the halter on and took the horse by the ring underneath. Ray opened the gate.

“So what are you—an apple farmer?” she asked as she led the mare out the gate and past Etta.

“Yeah, I'm an apple farmer,” Etta said. “I have to go.”

Chrissie smiled and led the mare into the barn. Ray followed Etta to her car. She got inside and tried to close the door, but he held it open.

“Everything okay, Etta?”

“Everything's fine,” she told him.

“You seem a little stressed.”

“Now what would you know about that, Ray?”

He shrugged. “Is everything okay at the farm?”

“Everything's fine at the farm.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” She started the engine, reached for the door again.

“Annie Oakley wasn't a horsewoman,” he told her then.

“What?”

“She was a sharpshooter.”

“Well, that's good to know, Ray. I'll be sure to make a note of that when I get home.”

She made a U-turn and drove away, spinning her tires in the gravel. Ray was aware that Chrissie had come up behind him, in fact had probably heard the last exchange.

“That the one?” Chrissie asked after a moment.

“That the one what?” he asked.

“The one you're thinking about when you're fucking me?”

14

Before leaving for New York City, Jackson had to tend to his rose bushes. He'd be gone at least a week, maybe ten days, and there might be cold weather, snow even, before he got back.

The blooms were long gone, but the plants still required work. He'd already covered the beds with a mulch made from horse manure—he had a ready supply of that—and wood chips and a fertilizer mix. Now he pruned the bushes back and then wrapped them in burlap, securing the wrappings with binder twine. Then he used a square-mouth garden shovel to heap the mulch around the roots to protect them from the elements. He had to hurry the job, and it irked him; he hadn't intended to leave until later in the week, but his plans had changed, rather abruptly, the day before.

Sonny's car was parked half on the grass and half on the driveway. The driver's door had been hanging open when Jackson arrived, and he'd closed it before the interior light killed the battery. Sonny hadn't shown his face yet, but then it was only ten o'clock. When Jackson was done with his plants he leaned the shovel against the barn wall and then made a trip over to the other farm to pick up the double horse trailer.

Back at the home farm Dean and Paulie were standing in the yard, Dean drinking a take-out coffee and yawning, Paulie looking at the rose bushes in wonder.

“It's like they got little parkas on,” he was saying when Jackson got out of the truck.

“Come on,” Jackson said. “You can help me load the Flash.”

With Paulie there to quiet him, the big stallion went into the trailer without incident. Then they loaded an older dapple gelding as well for a companion horse. Not that the stallion was much for companionship, but Jackson reasoned that the other horse might help to keep him quiet. He didn't want to tranquilize the animal, which was why they weren't flying him to New York City.

When Jackson went into his office for the paperwork that he would need for the border, Dean followed him.

“We got to talk about money,” Dean said. “We're gonna need a credit card, Jackson.”

“What're you gonna need a credit card for?” Jackson asked.

“Expenses, for fuck's sake. Motels, gasoline, food—little things like that, Jackson. How else we gonna get this horse to New York?”

“You don't need a credit card.”

“Why not?”

“Because you're not going to New York,” Jackson told him. “I am.”

Paulie came in then. “I filled that twenty-gallon water tank,” he said. “That gonna be enough?”

“That's good, Paulie,” Jackson said. “Thanks.”

“We're not going to New York,” Dean said.

“We're not?” Paulie asked.

“I'm taking him down myself,” Jackson said. “I want you guys over at the other farm; you can help put in those new stalls.”

“This sucks, Jackson,” Dean told him.

Jackson tucked the papers inside his jacket and walked around the desk. He stepped close to Dean, looked down at him. “Why does it suck, Dean?”

“We're supposed to trailer the horse to the Belmont,” Dean said. “Why the change all of a sudden? We're good enough to drive these other nags all over Ontario, but we're not good enough to take this horse to New York?”

“Sonny and I decided last night that I would do it,” Jackson said. “I'm the trainer.”

“Fucking Sonny…”

Jackson shrugged and walked outside. Dean looked at Paulie, who was worrying a hangnail with his teeth. Paulie was not too upset with the news; in truth he hadn't been looking forward to a long drive with Dean. And big cities scared him. Hamilton scared him, and it was a small city.

“You got nothing to say?” Dean asked and then left without waiting to find out.

Jackson was putting his bag into the cab of the truck when Dean came up behind him.

“I'm not building fucking stalls for Sonny,” Dean said.

“Suit yourself, Dean. I'm sure you got plenty of options. Maybe IBM's looking for a new CEO.”

Jackson popped the hood of the Ford, checked the oil and coolant. Dean stood by, fuming. He was looking for an argument, and all Jackson wanted to do was talk shit.