The Wilder Sisters (7 page)

Austin stirred in his sleep, the arch of his foot coming to rest against Rose’s palm. Absently she ran her thumb over the skin.

Paloma
tsk
ed. “Let go, Rose.”

“What do you mean? I’m holding his foot, for God’s sake.” “You can’t cork every bottle in the state. Let him sink to the level

of the gutter he wants so bad to lie in. Stop throwing him floats. What you see in that sack of misery is beyond me.” She turned and padded down the stairs, where the world spun on its proper axis and nobody was tanked unless it was due to anesthetic.

Smarting a little from Paloma’s words, Rose sat for a long time on the end of the bed, studying the vet’s whiskery face against the pillow. Even in sleep his expression was stubborn. His lips parted slightly, and

moved the way they might if he were kissing a child. The wings of his shoulder blades lifted and settled with each heavy breath. Did drunks dream? Rose could hardly lay her head down on the pillow at home without entering some complicated dreamworld where she argued with Philip over the children or tried and failed to outrun faceless strangers. Sometimes she saw her daughter in profile and called out to her in a strangled voice, but Amanda, having long ago turned a deaf ear to her mother’s wishes, never heard. In her late thirties Rose had thought about having another baby because her life suddenly felt so empty. An infant in one’s arms certainly presented an all-encompassing task, but all that longing turned out to be about was throat-clearing for grandparenthood. If that ever happened, Rose would face it alone. She pressed her fingers to the pulse in Austin’s foot. Like the Achilles’ tendon, the arch of the foot was such a vulnerable place. From time to time she thought that if the human heart rested there instead of bracketed inside the rib cage, people might be a little more careful of what they did with it. Aus- tin’s blood beat solidly, like the trot of a well-trained horse. Her fingers tightened protectively; then all of a sudden the idea that she was sitting here comforting a drunk made her skin crawl. She let go and stood up. Austin’s arm dangled from the mattress and his fin- gertips grazed the floor. For no reason other than that he was unable to stop her, Rose rubbed her knuckles against his scraped cheek. He moaned in his sleep but didn’t rouse.

“I’m warning you,” she whispered. “There are people here who care about you, but they are quickly losing patience.” Then she went downstairs to move his truck.

Two hours later Austin was still asleep when she switched off her monitor and headed for home. Paloma walked out back with her, and they stood by their cars, talking in the fading sunlight.

“Why don’t you come home with me for supper? Nacio’s making rabbit with that
mole
he brought up from Oaxaca. I can set out a third bowl. Afterward we can play cards.”

Her friends suffered these attacks of kindness once or twice a week. Rose carefully chose when to say yes and when to decline. “Sounds wonderful, Paloma, but I’ve got the dog to see to, the horses to feed, plus I’m in the middle of a really good novel. Bring me some leftovers on Monday?”

Paloma’s forehead wrinkled in concern. “You better not be coming back here to check on you-know-who. I’ll know if you do; I have codependent radar.”

Rose laughed. “Cross my heart, swear to the Virgin.”

Paloma seemed satisfied as she drove away in her silver Dodge Ram. Rose opened the door to the red Bronco, a ’68, practically an antique. It was one of her father’s old ranch vehicles, and she’d driven it since she was sixteen years old. Wouldn’t win any beauty contests, and parts for it were difficult to locate, but it ran like a top and had four-wheel drive for the winter snow between home and the three miles to the veterinary office. Philip had driven a decked- out Ford Taurus, totaled in the accident. Rose had thought about buying a new car, but in the end decided it made more sense to save the insurance settlement for a larger crisis. When she spent money these days, it was on repairs to the barn or toward the horses’ keep. She was counting on Winky’s foal to bring in a little extra cash, planning her future one day at a time. In some ways it felt as if her life were regressing back to a simpler time, and that only concentrat- ing on horses would make it manageable. She drove home without the radio, listening to the sounds of early evening, birds calling, the fall wind whistling through the trees, on which the leaves were already beginning to turn.

She parked next to the barn and checked the mailbox. There was nothing but ads and the electric bill, and these she set down on the kitchen counter. Chachi sat up on his rear legs, his white paws held up; begging was the only trick the Jack Russell had ever mastered. Rose praised him, threw him the dog cookie he expected, and changed into riding breeches.

She checked on Winky, then buckled a bareback pad on Max and walked him down the dirt road toward the open prairie behind her house. The air smelled of sage and distant weather. She could hear the faint sound of a motorcycle, which made her wonder where her son was, if he’d broken any new bones this week, and when she’d see him again. Eager to stretch his legs, Max snorted, and Rose could feel the restrained prance in his gait. Winky whinnied at being left behind, but Rose didn’t want to pony the nervous mare alongside the gelding today. She extended the trot, taking in deep breaths, smelling the earth as it turned up beneath his hooves, a perfume as complex, insistent, and deeply New Mexico as incense. Her thigh muscles unknotted themselves, and her calves hung

loosely, gripping his barrel. A magpie shot by her shoulder, then another, scolding the first. Rose could smell rain coming, feel that subtle dampness penetrating her shirt collar, and see the almost imperceptible change of color in the sky. She strained her ears and thought she heard thunder. Moments later, to the east, she caught a glimpse of lightning arcing toward the earth. Farther north, on Pop’s ranch, she could sit for hours watching a storm roll in. It was the best show in town. The horses would mill about, then turn frisky as colts when the first fat drops began to fall on their backs. Later, if the rain was heavy, instead of standing miserably in the downpour, they could have the shelter of the barn. Once she got Winky moved up there and settled in, she’d feel better. Rose intended to keep a hand in the mare’s pregnancy, but Winky needed the kind of super- vision her father’s wrangler was famous for providing. If any poten- tial problems arose, Shep would spot them. At the ranch Rose was convinced everything would go right with the foaling.

Austin hadn’t said yes or no to her vacation request. She wondered if he’d woken up yet, felt his pocket for his keys, and then realized they’d once again been taken from him by the women he paid to keep his clinic running. For an educated man, the vet wasn’t terribly smart. Rose toyed with the crazy idea that if he could just move past the alcohol, Austin could maybe find comfort in regular life, rides like these, the passage of days, having sober, ordinary conversations with a woman who was named Rose Ann instead of Leah. She imagined explaining all this to Lily, who would sit there listening to all her reasons and then systematically shoot holes in every one. Lily ran on cold-blooded logic. Pop often remarked that she thought like a man, which probably meant that Rose thought like a woman, inferior for sure. Oh, the hell with all of it! Lily wasn’t here, and Rose could always drive up to the ranch for the weekend. There was nothing keeping her here. Trailer Winky, bring Max along for the ride, and throw Chachi in the passenger seat.

She leaned her body forward, shortening her reins the way she’d learned as a child. Beneath her she could feel Max’s flanks trembling with anticipation, awaiting her leg cue. The moment she grazed his right side with her heel, he exploded into a riotous canter. Smiling, Rose let him blast along for a few strides. He was aging, and would run out of gas soon enough,
But, oh
, she thought,
such a willing animal
. Rose felt her whole body relax and slacken, her lungs soar open so that the clean breath of all that rain-washed air seeped into her cells, feed-

ing her heart, causing the muscle to beat slower and deeper than usual, every hard thud echoing in her blood. The lightest of rains peppered her face, and she shut her eyes and enjoyed every drop. At times like these she was grateful Amanda had abandoned the horse.

“Hey, Mama.”

Rose set her book down on the couch and looked up to see her daughter standing in the back doorway. Chachi roused himself from a pile of cushions and barked once. “Amanda?”

“Great watchdog.”

“He tries.” Her daughter’s long brown hair was twisted into those grubby ringlets her boyfriend favored. They shrouded her pale face so that her kohl-rimmed eyes looked sunken and haunted. The overall effect was like something a cat might throw up. Amanda’s clothes were damp, as if she had walked a little way in the rain, like maybe someone had cowardly dropped her off in town rather than drive up to the door. As she stood up, Rose forced herself to smile, to say nothing she would regret. “Well, this is a surprise. Towels are in the hall closet if you want to dry off. Are you hungry? I could heat you up some lentil soup. That’s what I had for supper.”

Amanda shook her head no. “Caleb’s band was opening for a concert in Santa Fe. I thought since we were in the area I’d—you know—drop by, see how you were doing, maybe spend the night.”

“This is your home, Amanda. You’re always welcome.”

Amanda reached down to pet Chachi, who was so delirious to see her he kept performing his begging trick over and over. “Chachi, that’s enough,” Amanda said. Then, casually, “So, how’s Max do- ing?”

Oh, no. She wanted money. Periodically Amanda pointed out that since Max was technically her horse, she had the right to sell him. No matter that she hadn’t contributed a dime to his upkeep, and as if an old horse would bring anything more than two hundred dollars from the dog food people. In the kitchen Rose put the kettle on to boil. She took down the boxes of tea bags, plunked Sleepytime into one cup and Mandarin Orange Spice into another. She deliberated, measuring the effect of each word before she said it aloud, certain that Amanda’s agenda would unfold in time as long as her mother didn’t push. “Your horse seems very happy here, despite his back troubles. Doctor Donavan sees him every couple weeks, and I exer- cised him today. Max, I mean,” she

added quickly, hearing the unfortunate double-entendre in her words. “We got a nice ride in before the rain started coming down so hard. Weatherman says it’s supposed to clear up by tomorrow.” Amanda picked up the book her mother had been reading.

“Mother, are you reading
romance
novels?”

Rose flushed. “What’s so terrible about a happy ending now and then? It’s nice break from real life.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Rose poured the hot water, then brought the cups in and set them on the coffee table. Talking to her daughter was like learning chess; she constantly had to project several possible moves into the future or find herself cornered. Amanda stared into the unlit firebox of the woodstove. She had her knees drawn up to her chest under one of those import store dresses, a dull green material with a pattern that looked like hopelessly tangled vines. Her Birkenstock sandals stuck out under the hemline. Funny how such an expensive shoe always looked two steps away from the trash. “Nothing earth shattering. I like to read about things working out. It gives me hope.”

Amanda sighed as she picked up her cup. “You are so clueless,” she said. “There is no such thing as hope.”

“Wow. That’s a pretty cynical thing for a girl of twenty to say.

May I ask what contributed to your opinion?”

Amanda blew across the surface of the tea. “It’s just how I feel since Daddy died.” She took a drink, her eyes blazing, daring Rose to try to convince her otherwise, just aching to engage her mother in battle in order to exorcise her own sorrows.

Rose picked up the paperback and threw it into the wastebasket. She took her teacup and stood at the open back door. Outside the sky was black, and the rain moved across the yard in characteristic September monsoonlike sheets. As was typical of mares, Winky brayed at the sight of one of her humans, but Max remained quiet. One of her neighbor’s horses called back, and the equine chorus began. In bad weather they could go on for hours.
And people complain about the coyotes making noise
, Rose thought.

“Mom,” Amanda said with that same superior tone in her voice. “I just meant you should widen your reading scope. There’s way more meaningful stuff to expose your mind to. The
I Ching
, for ex- ample. And Camille Paglia. Caleb’s turned me onto all kinds of great books.”

As relieved as she was to see her daughter alive, not visibly pregnant, and not wearing handcuffs, Rose tuned her out. She con- centrated instead on the drumbeat of the rain on the barn roof. Here was a girl who could never get above a D in her English courses because the teachers were “out of it,” and the books they assigned were “boring,” lecturing her mother about literature via a reggae drummer. Reggae wasn’t even that popular anymore. What Rose would give to do her life over, graduate collage instead of getting married at eighteen, earn credits for something as pleasurable as reading books. She sipped her tea silently as Amanda prattled on. Then Rose noticed the shadow of a figure coming up the side of the yard. She knew who it was before she heard his voice call out.

“I want my keys back this minute! I’m not kidding.”

Austin had walked here all the way from the veterinary office. He knew she’d change the combination to the safe because she’d done it before. He could have called, saved himself the walk, but Austin was smart enough to know that if he pleaded his case in person, Rose might soften. In the past he’d broken her down as if she were a shotgun. He knew just where to press to find her trigger.

“Rose! I know you’re in there. Let’s not drag this out.”

She didn’t move. It occurred to her that humble people knocked, hat in hand, and asked forgiveness. It also occurred to her that she was not dealing with a man who understood the power of humility.