The Weight of Gravity (11 page)

             
Donny drove a pickup truck comparable in size to Mel’s, but the resemblance stopped there.  Mel’s was new, with a full complement of bells and whistles to make it a somewhat sophisticated – ala country – ride.  Her truck was the big wheel version of his Jaguar.  But Donny’s truck, while large to fit his frame, was a clutter of empty cola cups, candy and burger wrappers, and oily tools, all of which complimented the worn upholstery and torn headliner.  There was a deep, dark hole where the radio might have been, and several pull levers were added to the under-dash.  Donny politely raked the passenger seat clean for Max.   

             
“Two-sixty AC,” Donny said as he drove away from the house.

             
“Excuse me?”

             
“Air conditioning works on
two
open windows, moving at
sixty
miles an hour.”  Donny roared – there wasn’t a better word to describe it.  He laughed the entire way out to the highway. 

They drove five miles north toward
the arboreal-glutted hamlet of Tularosa, a mecca of pecan and apple orchards, then turned east into a complex of white fences and Bermuda-patchy pastures.  Not a lot of grass, Max thought, but enough to raise a line of winning racehorses.  The Sanchez family was local, six generations worth, Max remembered, with five sons who all went into law, two of whom became superior court judges -- a bit more industrious than the average homesteader in the Tularosa Basin.

             
“Been on a horse lately, Max?” Donny asked, pulling the truck up so close that the front bumper came to rest against the fence.

             
“Been on a horse never, Donny,” Max told him.

             
“Aw, come on, even when you were working with your daddy?”

             
“First of all, Pop didn’t have horses around long enough for me to get on them and, second, I didn’t spend a lot of time working with him.”

             
Donny boomed with laughter once more.  “You are one funny fella, Max Rosen.”

             
They got out of the truck and walked to the stables.  There were three enormous white structures, each two-stories high and the length of a football field.  They reminded Max of the drawings he’d seen of Noah’s ark.  A paddock big enough to work several horses simultaneously adjoined the stable on the left.  Inside the building to the right Donny expertly saddled two mares, then handed the reins of one to Max.

             
“Let’s go kick some horse butt, Max.”  Donny led his mare out of the stable and into the open air.

             
Max put his shoe in the stirrup, grabbed the shoehorn and began to throw his body up into the saddle.  Forward movement was automatic, like sitting at a stop light in his car and having to keep his foot on the brake.  Even before his butt hit the leather his horse clomped quickly to the barn door and out into the sunlight.

             
“Whoa, Dale Evans!” Donny shouted.  “Not smart to mount when you’re still in the barn.  Jumpin’ Jenny there,” he said, pointing at Max’s mare, “might rear up and plant your skull in the hay rafters.”

             
“Got it,” Max said over his shoulder while still moving forward.

             
“You might want to put the brakes on her before you hit the highway,” Donny called after him.

             
A little experimentation and Max had Jenny turning and stopping when he pulled on the reins.  It troubled him that he was sitting on a horse wearing Brooks Brother’s slacks and Martin Dingman oxfords, but what the hell, he reasoned, this might be the only time he’ll ever ride a horse.  It was an adventure to be had, and he hadn’t had one of those in a long time.  He was looking forward to helping move the “dollar horses,” as Donny so eloquently put it.

             
“Sitting up here gives new meaning to the phrase ‘crotch rocket,’” he told Donny when he finally made the wide turn back to the barn.

             
“Crotch, what?”

             
“Never mind,” Max said, pulling Jenny’s reigns until she stopped.  He waited until Donny mounted his horse, dwarfing the poor animal with his massive size, and rode past him.  

             
Max’s horse fell in behind Donny’s as they headed across the pasture.  From a distance, Max could see a cluster of maybe six horses at the far end of the field.  All heads were turned, watching them approach.  A mare and her foal were trotting together, weaving in-and-out between the mesquite and creosote bushes.  It looked as if the parent was teaching the child how to be a champion.  They held their tails high, and Max marveled at how leggy, but graceful, the young horse ran.  Only fifty yards away now, parent and child broke into a thunderous run.  Max felt the earth shake beneath his saddle.

             
Mother and child eventually joined the rest of the herd when Donny began to move them along the fence-line, toward the high end of the field.  At one point, Max urged his mount forward, passing Donny, and turned the lead horse tighter against the railing. 
All right
! 
Who’s the man?
 
City boy is the man!
He thought.

             
Forty-five minutes later, they reached the boundary of the “north forty,” as Donny referred to it.  Donny expertly turned his horse’s head hard into the back of the herd, pushing them forward through the gate.

             
“We need to keep them moving to the high ground, and then we can let them be for a day or so,” Donny called out.

             
“Got it,” Max shouted and kicked his horse until he was trotting along with the group.  The ride quickly became bone rattling, and Max had to pull on the reigns to slow Jenny, to keep from sliding off.  He was grateful Donny wasn’t watching.  He was also beginning to wish there was more than thin fabric between his backside and the saddle.  There was a reason cowboys wore jeans, he realized.

             
At the top of a rise, capped by a tight grove of towering cottonwoods, Donny dropped back, and left the herd to congregate in the shade of the trees.

             
“Time to get back,” he said, turning toward Max, who was coming up from behind.  “Thanks for giving me a hand, good buddy.”

             
“My pleasure,” Max told him.

             
“Wanna race to the barn?”  Donny asked.

             
Max felt a spike of anxiety shoot into his stomach.  Then again, he thought, maybe his groin muscles were cramping.  “Nah, thanks.  I’m enjoying the view.  I’ll take my time.  But don’t let me hold you up if you want to hurry back.”  Regardless of where the pain was coming from, he was sure his horse was capable of running out from under him.  And with his luck, he’d land in a patch of prickly pear cacti.

             
Donny kept a slow pace, riding alongside Max.  Max was sure the gentle giant knew the truth about his reluctance to race, but was too kind to say anything.  Max liked him, more than he might have imagined possible before coming to Cottonwood.

             
"Lots of new construction going on," Max said, pointing to a billboard skirting the barbed wire fence that enclosed the pasture.  "How's it going to look having a few hundred homes backed up to this field?

             
"Like shit."

             
"The Sanchez family doesn't mind this type of construction right next door?" Max asked.

             
"Sure they mind, but what're they gonna do about it?  The corporations moving in are too powerful."

             
"So, who's selling to the out-of-towners?"

             
"Local families."

             
"Why?"

             
"They don't have much choice."

             
"Sure they do.  They can refuse to sell."

             
"Nah, see, most of this land," he said, gesturing at the open range beyond the fence, "is homestead property, all the way up into town.  Same families have owned it for three or more generations.  But land taxes began to go up, and when the developin’ started, the taxes went even higher.  The big city moguls came down here and got a state law passed that said they could buy the owners out … pennies on the dollar … if families were a day late in paying their taxes.  Not enough farming and ranching jobs left to support the locals, so when their taxes went through the ceiling, they couldn't afford to stay on the land where their grandparents settled a hunerd or more years ago."

             
Donny turned in the saddle to look back at Max.  "Ain't that why you’re here, to build a big home and retire?  You're one of those Hollywood types, ain't ya?"

             
"No.  I'm not here to buy out Doris' neighbors."

             
Donny turned around, and they continued their slow ride to the stables.  They rode in silence for several minutes, Max staring at Donny’s massive frame gobbling up saddle and horse.  He absurdly imagined that Donny was almost big enough to take his boots out of the stirrups and drag his toes in the dirt as the horse moved forward.

             
"Isn't anyone fighting the developers in the courts?"

             
"Sure.  They try.  But the best lawyer in town joined the enemy camp, local boy, too.  Fella named Hightower, Garner Hightower.  You know him?"  Donny turned again to face Max.

He felt like Donny was searching for something in his reply.  Some idea perhaps about where Max stood on the battlefield between land-grabbers and locals. 

"Yes.  We went to high school together."

             
Donny turned back around in the saddle before he spoke.  "Well, with that kind of firepower, local boy and all, arguing for the enemy, owners don't have much chance of saving their land … it’s all gone on too long to turn things around.  Even Doris is thinking about selling out to avoid losing everything your daddy worked for."

             
I can’t let that happen.  I won’t let it happen.  Doris isn’t going to be at the mercy of land developers, if I have anything to say about it.

              “How about some lunch?” Donny asked, when their horses were unsaddled, brushed and stabled.

             
“Thanks, but I’ll pass.”

             
“Aw, come on.  Fellas at the diner would get a kick meeting a big-shot writer like Max Rosen,” Donny pleaded.

             
Donny’s smile was genuine, and his lunch invitation was an opportunity for Max to thank the giant for taking him into the pastures.  Max felt unexpectedly euphoric about his equine experience -- even though he was walking funny, his expensive slacks and shoes were ruined, and the chaffing on his inner thighs would require serious ointment for several days.

             
The diner was called
Ruby’s
.  It was an older building attached to one of the newer stop-and-go gas and grocery stations.  They sat in a circular booth in the corner with two other men, Donny’s contemporaries.  There was a round of introductions before each ordered.

             
“Donny says you’re a writer, Max.  What do you write?”

             
The question came from Cecil, a balding, apple-cheeked fellow who drove a loader for the county highway department.  He wore blue coveralls with a plaid shirt and dark-rimmed glasses.  Max noticed that he had a habit of covering the top of his coffee cup with both hands, trapping the heat.

             
“Fiction,” Max told him.

             
“Is that like Stephen King stuff?” Cecil wanted to know.

             
“Not quite.  King writes fiction too, but I don’t write horror stories like he does.”

             
“I see,” Cecil said, raising his eyebrows above the rim of his glasses, but Max was sure he didn’t.

But it didn’t matter.  The conversation quickly turned to the physical attributes of the new waitress at the
Lamplighter Lounge
on the I-54 Expressway.  Cecil called her a “real looker,” and Donny said he saw her at Piggly Wiggly and was sure she wasn’t wearing a bra under her halter-top.  Earl, a crass, cigar smoking cable installer with ten credits in accounting from the junior college said he was going to ask her out next time he went “out there for some pool and pussy.”  His remark brought a round of food-spitting laughter.