Crybaby Ranch (20 page)

He holds me for a while, his cheek beside my ear. “Zann, let's fix this.”

I believe that Bo knows me and cares for me enough to do what is necessary to fix this. I turn my face so we can kiss. Then move away and pull my skis out of the snow, because I also believe that Bo keeps approaching me from behind for some reason I haven't figured out yet; perhaps neither has he.

The Suburban's interior light casts squares of yellow on the snow when Bo opens the rear door and reaches for his skis. Like his downhill skis, his cross-country skis have straw and alfalfa stuck in their bindings from the floor of the truck. He intended all winter to install his ski rack, but never got around to it. There are so many things he hasn't gotten around to in the time I've known him. There's no new sculpture or progress on his artists' retreat. These intentions he allows to slide past him as unheeding as he did the ski ramp this afternoon. Is it really like the aunts said? Does he have to make a big mess first in order to get motivated into action?

I watch him shake his cross-country boots upside down.

“The last straw,” I say, plucking a piece from his shoe string.

It occurs to me that if I am the one physically holding off, it is in response to my sense of Bo's own reluctance. He is not any more ready than I was a few months back. Why would he accept jobs from Caro unless it was to give himself time? Leaning on my poles as I insert my boot tip into the binding on my ski, I stop and look at Bo.

“What are you scared of?”

He answers without hesitation. “You're going to change my life.”

“We'll change each other. Is that so bad?”

“Let's ski.”

The snowy hills gleam against the dark sky. The crescent moon is a mere thread. Or a wick, perhaps, drawing today's sunlight from within the crystal points of the snowflakes. Earlier, just past sunset as Bo and I were driving back from the village, the Sleeping Indian glowed with a reflected light that seemed to come from deep within itself rather than the setting sun. It kindled the eastern horizon, a benign illumination guarding the valley, like a nightlight in a child's room.

Now warm winds blow from the southwest, pushing up the temperature, and I think of the last chinook in the spring when Bo and I first made love. I stop and yank off the fleece pullover from beneath my Windbreaker, tie it around my waist, and put my jacket back on. Once at our lookout point, we sit on Bo's down vest, with skis and poles stuck upright in the snow beside us. I lean against Bo's chest with a leg of his on each side of me. We are close and alone above the world, accompanied only by the crescent moon and Venus, the planet Native Americans call White Star Woman. Maybe Bo and I will make love after all tonight, in the snow, the chinook winds wrapping our bare limbs, White Star Woman guiding our coming together.

Bo is right. We can work this out better in the outdoors. But he must understand that he has to be clear with me. I can't be manipulated into demonstrating his own emotions. I'm still porous enough from living like that with Erik and my mother that I pick up signals directed my way without my own awareness. I picture the key laying in my palm like a message to me.

“Talk to me, Bo.”

“Caro refuses to be dumped—she said so.”

“You've been seeing her and talking to her all this time?”

“I've been trying
not
to all this time. It's eerie. She acts as if that conversation in your kitchen didn't take place. She phones constantly.”

“You're still scouting livestock for her?”

“I keep telling her to find somebody else.”

I am silent. Is this
Fatal Attraction
without the knife, as Bo once called it? Or is this Bo failing to act on his intentions again?

“Why do you think she's acting this way?” I ask.

“If she stops seeing me, Dickie will direct his suspicions toward her brother—I mean, Benj.” Bo rests his chin on top of my head. “Hell, I should have told Caro that I'm in love with you. That would have stopped her. I could have told Dickie, too.”

A cool pink rage rises from my pelvis. By the time it reaches my chin, I'm on my feet, snapped into my skis, and hissing downslope. Bo does not follow or call after me.

I cannot explain this anger. It burns through me, sizzles pathways sharp as the tracks my skis cut into the softening snow. I reach my cabin, kick out of my skis, and open the back door enough to slip my arm inside and grab my backpack off the hook. I throw myself into my car and head down the driveway.

I believed we both understood the meaning of the connection between us and that we were just biding time till everything played itself out. Till we both grew strong enough to handle what would be a demanding love affair. And then he says, “I should have told Caro I'm in love with you.” Of course, he should have told Caro—if he wanted Caro out of his life. And first he should have told me—if he wanted me in his life.

How could I have figured it so wrong?

I drive to the end of the dirt road and hit the highway. Where the hell am I going? I turn toward Dubois instead of Jackson. I drive fast and angrily, but am alone on the road, so I can get away with it.

Far into the distance I see the first lights. A bar, of course—this is Wyoming. I pull in anyway, though I've never been to a bar alone. But I am not alone. Beside me, like a full-blown entity, is my anger. It just balloons up around me till I feel my air nearly cut off. I wish I could chop it into small manageable pieces, to sort and label; instead, I feel like I should pull out a chair for it as I sit at a small round table one step above the dance floor and order a bottle of Moosehead and a glass.

A small group of musicians play. A few people slow dance. I create chains of wet circles with my sweaty beer glass on the varnished tabletop and try to keep my lips from moving as I scream inside my head, How could he say that to me? How could he speak of love for me with her name wrapped around it, like mud packed around fresh trout?

The waitress brings me another bottle of Moosehead. I don't remember ordering this. When I reach for my backpack to pay her, she mumbles something I can't hear since I am sitting close to the sound system.

I feel thick with anger at Bo and at myself. I knew somewhere inside that the mop-up with Caro was not complete, but I ignored the knowledge. Like Erik, I act one way and feel another. I passionately kiss Bo, while hiding an escape key in my curled fingers. But Bo has been hiding Caro.

I reach for the second bottle of beer and pour half of it into my glass, counseling myself not to drink more so I can drive home safely. Now that I have surfaced to my surroundings, I notice a tingling at the nape of my neck. Without lifting my eyes, I all at once feel self-conscious, as if I am being talked about or watched. I take mental inventory. Cross-country ski boots, bibs—that's not unusual around here. Hair wildly spread across my shoulders, uncombed since morning—that's not unusual around here. So what's the deal?

Finally, I look up. The entire band is swiveled my way, singing Roy Orbison's “Pretty Woman.” I turn my head. The bar is two-thirds full, some couples, mostly men, and many are watching for my reaction with slight smiles on their faces. I have missed something big here.

I give my attention to the band. The lead singer is a gorgeous, long-haired blond. Twentysomething, I'd guess. He nods and smiles to me, then ends the song, calls for a break, and heads for my table.

“I'm Deak.” He smiles and gives me a chance to tell my name, which I let pass. “Can I sit a minute?”

I shrug. He pulls out a chair and sits. In my head I am putting together the second bottle of beer with the song and the stares.

“I'm thinking this isn't what you had in mind, coming here tonight, but life is circular, you know?” Deak grins. “Full of curves.” He leans toward me. “I'll back off if you want.”

“No,” I say. “It's okay.” The distraction of him is a relief. He's pretty, in a masculine way. Turquoise eyes, wavy hair to his shoulders. Looks strong, probably from carrying musical equipment place to place. There is something playful and nice about him. Something clean and straightforward. Young though. Is he going to take a closer look any minute and realize I'm older than he is by a decade or two?

“Can you tell me your name?”

Seems I can. “Suzannah.” Seems a smile loosens itself.

“I mean it. You are beautiful.” Did he say that once before and I didn't hear? I smile in response and look around the room again. Eyes are still watching us; one set is familiar. It takes me a moment to attach a name. Mick Farlow, Bo's lawyer friend. I haven't encountered him since the barbecue. At the memory, I look again at the table and make chain links with my glass.

“The bastard isn't worth it,” Deak says.

I look up at him.

“Give me a shot. I'll be gone singing in some other smoky bar in a few weeks, and by then the son of a bitch will have had some time to set his priorities straight.”

“It's not my style,” I say. The idea has appeal though, and I laugh a bit to think of being involved in a romance that simple. Not a romance simple enough to fix with a little dash of jealousy, but one that lasts till the lover moves on to some other smoky bar. At the moment that suits me. Brief and uncomplicated. Fun and fast moving. I have been primed for romance since I understood the one with Erik was all in my head.

Deak tells me his group, Your Sister's Cherry, has one more set to play. Then the motel restaurant next door is fixing the band steaks for a late dinner. He'd like it very much if I would join them.

I can't believe I heard the name of his group right. I look toward the bandstand and read the name on one of the drums.

Yep.

I decide two things: One, I will not look shocked and ask about this name. And two, I'll go to dinner. I'll go because I need a rest from myself and because I don't want to go home yet and don't know where else to go. Besides, Bo and I never got around to eating tonight.

I say to Deak, “I would like that.” And he orders a third Moosehead for me to sip during the next set.

I am starving. I eat the entire T-bone draped over the sides of my plate. The five guys in the band are hilarious and revved. They don't intend to sleep till the sun comes up. The plan is to drive to Willow Hot Springs after dinner, soak, and smoke a little marijuana. I am invited to join them, along with two other women (who call themselves “girls”) who come from the band's hometown, Louisville. Since I grew up across the river in Cincinnati and spent the first couple years there while married to Erik, we might have some places in common.

“Have you ever played the White Horse Inn?” I say.

“The White Horse?” Deak says.

“Right across the Ohio River next to the bridge on the Kentucky side.”

“That was torn down; there's a circular high-rise with a revolving restaurant on top now. Not our kind of music.”

The bass player says, “My parents used to talk about the White Horse. It's been gone twelve, fifteen years.” I think his name is Tom, could be Ron. There's a Don here, too, and an Andy. I'll get them straight later. The girls are Delta and Sandy. Think beach.

Now that I've advertised my age, I may as well come fully out with it. “When I was in high school, it was the place to go for dinner dates.”

At least they know Roy Orbison.

D
riving home, all I think about is a hot shower to rinse off whatever organisms are mighty enough to survive winter in a Wyoming hot springs. Then I will burrow deep into my down comforter for the night's sleep I missed out on. Though I am tired, I feel rather pleased with myself. I carry a warm glow from my audacious skinny-dipping with a group of musicians who were strangers to me yesterday. I pull into my drive, get out of the car, and stretch at the new day before opening my cabin door.

“What are you doing here?” I blurt. Bo sits at my kitchen table. His Suburban isn't parked in my drive; he must have skied over from his place. “You can't just walk into my cabin whenever you want.”

“Since when?” Bo sits up straighter. “Hey.” His features harden. “Don't walk in here”—he checks the time with a flick of his eyes to the wall clock—“at
eight
in the morning and accuse
me
of a crime.”

I feel like I took him by surprise as much as he surprised me. Maybe he fell asleep at the table.

Bo's eyes get fierce. “You didn't come home, goddamn you.”

“That's not your affair.” I turn my back on him and walk into the mudroom.

“That's just what I'm talking about,” he says, scraping back his chair and following me. “Your
affair
. With a—”

“Go home, Bo.”

“A little guitar-plucking shit with hair to his shoulders.” Outrage tightens Bo's vocal cords and his voice rises at the end. I'm convinced he fell asleep and is working himself up to reclaim anger that mounted throughout the night while waiting for me to come home. I hold the picture of him pacing and checking the clock till dawn.

I hang up my jacket and, ignoring Bo, head back into the kitchen. He halts me with a hand on my shoulder.

“You
slept
with him.” Bo's face flips from anger to injury. “How could you do that?”

I look at his hand on my shoulder much the same way I looked at the slime I brought up from the bottom of Willow Hot Springs on my toe somewhere around four o'clock this morning.

“Why, Suzannah?” Bo dips his face downward to recover himself, then lifts it and tries again, softer this time. “Suzannah, why would you do that?”

I continue to ignore him and bend down and pull off my cross-country boots, tie their laces together, and move away, back into the mudroom, to hang them above the dryer. I rather enjoy Bo's mistaken notion that I slept with Deak. I want to ask how he knows I've been with someone, but I'd have to break my facade of indifference.

“Some dumb-ass kid.” Bo gets himself stoked up. “Sleeping with some druggie musician just to—I don't know—get me moving.”

I swing around to face him. “Was that my job? To get you moving?” I yell, “Damn you.”

I fill with fury. All the years with my mother and Erik and here I am again dealing with yet another person who refuses to be accountable. Same dance, different partners. It's like being with someone who needs emotional potty-training, always wading through unaddressed matters.

“This is it, neighbor. You can stay put running errands for Caro and stalling Crybaby Ranch and letting your grandfather insult the heart of your life all you want, but—”

“I've never let him insult you.”

I'm stopped. “I'm talking about your sculpture.” We stare at each other. Bo's immediate assumption that I am the heart of his life stirs me. But I can't afford to halt my life in hope that he'll grab hold of his. It's too easy for me to live for other people; I must make the choice to move on.

“Bo.” I feel ready to cry. “Bo,” I begin again. “I can't be with you. You're not living fully enough for me.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You're too content to follow low ground. Like a shallow stream, you just wander where it's easiest. You don't need to stand up and declare yourself and maybe that works for you. Maybe that's your family's way. Your mother doesn't declare herself. Nobody knows who she is. Your grandfather doesn't admit who he is either. And your father—you've never even tried to find out who he is.”

“If this has something to do with you shacking up in a sleazy motel room, I'd like to know what.” Bo turns away from me, starts making fresh coffee, as if this were any old morning, as if we were just discussing today's skiing conditions.

But I can't stop. The flow of words triggers my thought, instead of the other way around, and I won't know what I'm thinking without voicing my ideas as I hear them unfold.

“Your grandfather dishonors his own creativity, as well as yours. If you let him continue doing that to you, you will get stuck doing the same kind of artwork all your life. Like him you will never move on. You will build the same pieces over and over. And like him you will condemn anyone who does grow in their creativity. What kind of artist retreat will you offer then?”

I take a deep breath. Bo has halted his coffee making and turned to me. I wipe my eyes and shake my head.

“But nobody in your family has taught you to how to stand up for yourself or even suggested to you before that this might be a good thing for you. I think you've gotten some other message about getting along with everybody, not rocking the boat. You've accomplished a lot so far, Bo, but none of it—Crybaby Ranch, your art, your self-worth—will benefit by stopping now. And it seems to me that you have stopped.”

Bo shoves the bag of coffee beans away and angrily approaches me standing beside the table. “After Farlow called I came over here and waited for you. I sat here all night
knowing
what you were doing.” Bo thumps the tabletop. “You weren't alone with him, Zannah. I was there with you the whole time.” Bo looks like he could cry himself.

I sit in defeat on the edge of a chair. Bo has finally given up the idea that we'll drink coffee together at the end of this, but he hasn't given up his position of most injured party. He's trying to win something; he's not trying to understand anything. I don't know if he can hear me right now, but I still have things I need to say, to make the feelings clear to myself and to know I've acted responsibly and honestly with him.

“Bo, I fell in love with you as a courageous, creative man taking charge of his life and sculpting it as carefully and soulfully as any piece of art submitted to a gallery. But that's not the man I skied away from last night.” I rise from the edge of the chair. “Last night I saw a man who feels indecisive about his future with me, a man not ready to declare himself as an artist or to stand up for his morals with Caro or his self-esteem with anybody. I saw a scared man, a lazy man. And I left.”

I go back into the mudroom, grab a clean towel from the shelf over the washer, and tell Bo I'm taking a shower. “I want you to leave.”

It's silent in the kitchen. Then I hear Bo come to me as I reach for the bathroom doorknob.

“Look at me,” he says, cupping my chin as I begin to turn away from him. He waits until I drag my eyes to his. “I'm your future, Zannah.”

I feel a buildup of emotion that is gathering in dammed pools behind my eyes.

Bo releases his hold on my chin and I open the bathroom door.

I turn on the shower, but wait listening at the door, still dressed until I hear Bo leave.

“Zannah,” Bo said to me in bed last night, “I want to hold you close, spend the night with my hand on your bare hip.”

Then Caro phoned.

Was that really just hours ago?

 

After a shower and a long midday nap, I drive to the bar. I stand a moment inside the entrance. Right off, I spot Bo, spun around on a stool, his back against the counter and his boots stuck in the aisle. Deak whispers into the microphone, “Suzannah, Suzannah.” My name echoes softly throughout the room. “Suzannah, Suzannah.” Some people cheer when they follow Deak's gaze and find me here again tonight. I smile broadly at our romance groupies. Deak begins to play “Pretty Woman.”

As I walk past Bo, he says loud enough for only me to hear, “Hey, Zannah, want to dance?”

I'm surprised to discover Bo has such a nasty streak. I refuse to look at him. I step over his boots and move toward the music. I sit at the table Deak said he would save. How does the band do this every night? I slept till late afternoon and still I am tired. Thank God I didn't have to work today.

Half a dozen songs later, Bo approaches and leans one-handed on my table, the narrow neck of a Beck's Dark hanging from a circle of forefinger and thumb at his side.

“What the fuck's going on, Zannah? You want me jealous? I'm jealous. Now get rid of the little squirt.”

From behind Bo, after signaling his band to continue on without him, Deak has approached. He says now, “You must be Bo. Suzannah told me you're neighbors.”

Bo does not move, nor does he speak; he raises his eyebrows at me in accusation, as though I had betrayed an intimate secret: neighbors.

“I'm Deak, Suzannah's…” Bo lifts his weight from the table, carefully straightens, and slowly turns toward Deak, challenging him to finish this sentence. Deak smiles into my eyes. “Little squirt,” he finishes and offers his right hand to Bo.

“I'll shake to that,” Bo says.

Deak returns to the microphone, and Bo drops into a chair. “Shit,” Bo says, “he's a decent kid.”

Bo never got around to installing a separate meter for my cabin so I could pay my own electric bill. He joked that we would always be wired together. So I say now, “Bo, nothing is different. We're still wired together and you're still welcome at the neighborhood potlucks.” I want Bo to experience the inanity of his reaction to Deak so soon after continuing his flirty relationship with Caro.

“You kicked me out.”

“I was angry. My boiling point is lower in the mountains.”

“I'm not coming back till you dump him.”

“So long, then.”

Bo is not entirely sober. I should have realized that earlier. He tosses down the rest of his beer, bangs his bottle on the table, and stands. He looks down at me a long moment. For the first time, I see in him a strong resemblance to his grandfather. As Bo walks away, through the bar and out the doors, I recall a time O.C. was visiting the ranch and a veterinary supply salesman drove up and, mistaking him for a ranch hand, said, “Sir, excuse me. Who is your superior?” O.C. spit to the side of himself and said, “The son of a bitch hasn't been born yet.” Bo could have said just those words as he stood staring down at me. As far I am concerned, he would be perfectly correct. No one is superior to Bo. If a competition were involved, the matter would be settled.

But Deak is like a cool float in the hotel pool after emerging from the turbulence of the ocean. I imagine I will surrender easily to swimming short laps with him, touching the finite boundaries of our brief future together.