Faraway Horses (3 page)

Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, Dad came home. He just came into the house and stood before us, and said, “Boys, your mother’s gone.”

That was it. I was shocked. Mom had been in and out of the hospital so many times with her diabetes that I figured she’d come home, and we’d go on. But she didn’t, and we had to.

*     *     *

For Mom, trick roping had meant more than anything. It was the glue that held our family together. When Smokie and I did the Sugar Pops commercial, she loved it. The spot ran nationally, and we were dubbed “The Sugar Pops Kids.” Mom’s only moment in the limelight had been as a dance instructor at an Arthur Murray dance studio when she was a young woman, and she was elated that we were on national television. She would sit in front of the TV and pray that the commercial would come on.

After Mom passed away, one of her nurses who went to the funeral told me that while she had been in a coma the entire time she was in the hospital, they had left a TV playing in her room. I guess they thought the constant voices and sounds would help stimulate her back to consciousness. Just before she died, our Sugar Pops commercial came on and Smokie and I were doing our rope tricks. As soon as the commercial was over, Mom passed away.

I can’t help but think that she heard our voices, and maybe that was all she needed. Maybe hearing her babies one last time was her way of saying good-bye. I guess we all have our way of saying “I love you and good-bye.” Timing again. It just keeps showing up.

With Mom gone, Dad changed for the worse. He had always been pretty rough on us, and it had gotten to the point where he’d been turned in to the law quite a few times, but he never did anything life-threatening while Mom was
alive. The moment he told us she was gone, I knew life was going to get tougher.

Within a year of Mom’s death, Dad had pretty much fallen apart. He really loved Mom, and losing his wife seemed to drive him over the brink. He drank heavily, and he just didn’t want to live anymore. He’d had a rough life. He had been a prisoner of war in Germany for over a year during World War II. God knows what they did to him—he never told us—but maybe he never got over the experience. To make matters worse, Dad had a near-fatal accident in Alaska, receiving a big jolt of electricity while working as a lineman. He was in the hospital for six or eight months. After he came home, he suffered from horrible headaches. They seemed to torture him for the rest of his life.

For whatever reason he justified his anguish by blaming Smokie and me. Maybe he thought that if we weren’t around, Mom would still be alive. Not our mom, mind you, his wife.

During that time, Smokie and I would talk as we walked to the bus stop for school, pondering whether or not we were going to live through the next night, let alone the school year. We lived in fear every day. We felt we had no safe place and were heading down a road with no good ending in sight.

Dad was drinking so much he couldn’t sleep. It got to where he would keep us awake many nights running, hollering and screaming at us, beating us, and slapping us around. Our dining room table was solid oak and surrounded by oak captain’s chairs. I stared at that wood grain a lot when he made us sit there and take his yelling.

By the time he was thoroughly liquored up, it would be late. The woodstove in the corner would have long gone out, and the house would have turned cold. Dad would get us out of bed, and we’d have to sit there in our underwear, shaking from the cold and knowing what was ahead of us. He’d never notice our discomfort or fear because he was so full of his own “antifreeze.”

One night Dad pulled us out of bed about midnight. He’d been on a drinking binge since shortly after dinner. We had to sit down at the table while he yelled at us for a couple of hours. It must have been two or three o’clock in the morning, and we begged him to let us go back to bed.

But no. He walked from the table to the refrigerator, reached in the freezer, and pulled out one of his trusty bottles of vodka. He’d drink some of that and then he’d drink a beer. It was his ritual. On his return from the kitchen he’d ask us, “What are you little bastards looking at?” That was the tip-off. Another butt-whipping party was about to start, and we were the guests of honor.

Dad had a riding crop with a molded plastic handle that he’d use on us (I’m sure that’s the reason why even today I’m still a little touchy about riding crops). We were too afraid to run because Dad always told us we’d get it worse if we did. But this night he was really drunk, and we couldn’t face it. We’d had enough. We were tired of going to school bruised and beaten and with no sleep, so we took off running.

The house was perfect for a chase. It had a sort of island in the middle, and a full circle would take you from the kitchen through the bathroom, into the living room and dining room, and back again.

We ran through the kitchen. I was in the lead, with Smokie right behind me. Dad was on the other side of the house trying to catch up. Suddenly Smokie stopped, opened the drawer where the cutlery was kept, and pulled out a steak knife. The desperate look in his eyes scared me, but I understood. Smokie just didn’t want another beating. He was finally going to take care of us.

I knew that if Dad saw him with that knife, Smokie would have to use it, because if he didn’t, Dad would take it away from him and kill him with it. I collected every last bit of
calm I had left in me, and quietly whispered, “Smokie, please put that knife back in the drawer. Don’t let him see it.”

Smokie paused just for a moment. It’s almost as if God kept my dad out of sight long enough for Smokie to put that knife back in the drawer.

We couldn’t have looked at each other for more than a half second, but it’s a moment we will remember for the rest of our lives.

Dad caught Smokie and started beating him. “Dad, please,” I begged, “please don’t. Please don’t hurt him.”

Dad looked at me and he said, “You get off of my ass.”

I don’t know why, but I said, “I’m not on your ass.”

That was a big mistake. The words pulled Dad off my brother; he came after me, and he had me cornered. The only way out was through the front door, and I made a mad dash for it. For some reason Dad didn’t follow me. Too drunk, I guess.

It was the middle of the winter, with snow on the ground and a temperature of ten below zero. Outside, standing there in my underwear, I had very few choices.

The best choice involved my bloodhound, Duke. Duke lived out in the yard, in a fifty-five-gallon barrel with a bunch of straw in it. He weighed about 110 pounds, way more than I did, but I crowded into the barrel with him, huddling beside him. Duke kept me warm, for otherwise I would surely have frozen to death.

Duke and I stayed in that barrel for a couple of hours, and then I began to worry. Was Smokie okay in there?
Would he be dead when I came in? If he was, would Dad kill me, too? Although those are hardly thoughts any little boy should have, I had them. And I didn’t know what to do.

Finally, even in spite of Duke, the cold just got too much for me, and I ventured back into the house. Luckily, Dad had so much liquor in him that when I came back in, he just looked at me and asked, “Where you been?” He’d already forgotten.

Smokie was all right. By that time Dad had had enough to drink so that when we again asked him if we could go to bed, he let us.

We got only a couple hours sleep before we had to go to school, but all things considered—and I know this sounds like the ultimate in denial—that night worked out pretty well compared to what could have happened.

Mom had been gone for about a year when Dad placed an ad for a maid in
Western Horseman
magazine. He really wasn’t looking for a maid, he was looking for a date. And he found one: a lady named Norma moved out from Indiana with her boy, Tom, a nice kid about my age. It wasn’t too long before Dad had married her, or at least that’s what he told us. In any case, Norma wasn’t a maid. She was more like a bed partner to him and sort of an imitation mom for Smokie and me.

For two or three months Dad was on good behavior. He didn’t want Norma to think that he was anything like what he really was. Then after a while he felt less inhibited around her, and the drinking got worse again.

One night Dad got mad. It’s hard to say about what, because usually it wasn’t about anything that a sane person could understand. He kept us up, hollering and screaming and cussing at us. Norma went to bed. I could tell she was real worried for Tom, wondering what she’d gotten herself into.

Dad hadn’t beaten us since Norma had been in the house, but that night he did. After he beat Smokie with that famous little riding crop, he turned it around to use the handle like a billy club and worked him over some more. Then he started slapping and punching me. I huddled down with my head mashed in a corner of the room. Dad had the heel of his boot on my throat, and he held a frying pan in his hand. I know Smokie would have helped me, but there wasn’t a whole lot left of him after Dad had beaten him senseless.

I’ll never forget the look on Dad’s face as he screamed, “I’ll fucking kill you, you little son of a bitch.”

Although Dad beat the hell out of me, too, he didn’t use the frying pan on me. He was too drunk to pick me up; he would have fallen on me if he’d tried. That’s probably the only thing that stopped him.

Norma, who had heard all this going on, wasn’t going to take the chance that Tom would be beaten or killed by this man whom she had misjudged. She made plans to leave the first chance she got.

She also talked to Johnny France, a deputy sheriff in Madison County, Montana. Now, some of the teachers at school knew what was going on. Smokie’s physical ed teacher, Bob Cleverly, had seen the marks on him, and when he heard about what had happened, he, too, went to Deputy France. In
those days it wasn’t really acceptable for law-enforcement officials to deal with family problems, but between Norma and the teachers, everybody started trying to figure out a way to get us out of there.

Dad was off at work, and Smokie, Tom, and I were at home with Norma when she decided the time had come. She was going to get Tom, who was more scared than he’d ever been in his life, out of there, and she wanted Smokie and me to go with them.

We were terrified to stay, but we were also terrified by the thought of leaving. Dad was the only family we knew. But when Norma assured us, “I’ll take care of you boys. You can come live with me, and I’ll raise you like my own sons,” she convinced us to go.

Norma put us in her car and took us to a dumpy motel in Ennis. It was one of those places where you pay by the month and where the cockroaches can ground tie. Everything seemed to be going fine, or at least Smokie and I thought so, but by the end of the week, the reality of raising three boys by herself was more than Norma could handle, and she decided she didn’t want to keep us after all.

Norma put us back in the car, dropped us off at Deputy France’s house in Ennis, and drove away.

Talk about feeling lost and abandoned. Smokie and I had really believed we were going to stay with Norma. Instead, we found ourselves wards of the court and the responsibility of the county.

We stayed with Johnny France in Ennis for a couple of weeks. With the help of a social worker named Emery
Smith, we looked into living with a friend of our family who lived in California, a woman named Anne Annis who was sort of like an aunt to us. She and her husband had already raised a couple of kids of their own. They were just leaving for a month’s vacation, so they couldn’t take us right away.

Johnny France had had a tough time as a boy, too. When he wound up with no place to live and no family to take care of him, a couple named Forrest and Betsy Shirley took him in and raised him on their ranch near Norris. Johnny called the Shirleys and asked if we could stay for a month if we worked on the ranch. They thought that would be fine.

By the end of that month Smokie and I really cared for the Shirleys. Forrest was what I had always wished my dad could have been. And just before we were to leave, we asked them if there was some way we could stay. We liked being at the ranch. Anne Annis and her husband lived in a town in California, and if we moved in with them we’d never get to be around horses or cattle again, or be able to rope and ride and be cowboys like we wanted to be.

Forrest and Betsy said we could stay there and live with them. They became our foster parents, and their ranch became our home.

Dad was very bitter toward us after we left, and we had to go to court to get the few things that we owned: a couple of horses, a saddle or two, and our clothing. Forrest helped us through the court process, and the county appointed us an attorney to represent us. We won in court and got our
belongings, but then—I’m not sure how it worked—I had my first lesson in how the legal system operated: we got a bill for $1,100 from our attorney. He told us he’d put a lien on our stuff if we didn’t pay it. This guy was strong-arming his own clients, twelve- and fourteen-year-old boys.