In Open Spaces (19 page)

“I’ll get him.” Rita was closest to the gate. She took off after the calf, her boots bouncing out and back against her horse’s flanks.

“Now look what you done, George.” Steve pointed at Dad, as though he was about to come after him. “Scared off one of your calves and damn near branded my dad at the same time.”

“Maybe you ought to come over and brand this, Steve.” Dad bent over and stuck his rump in the air, laughing and pointing at it.

“Get him, Dad,” Steve yelled to Gary. “This is your chance.”

“Rita’s down!”

Our attention was so focused on the horseplay that when Bob shouted, it took a few seconds to register. We all looked at Bob, letting the words
sink in. Then our eyes shifted out into the pasture, where Rita’s horse galloped riderless in the opposite direction. We all moved at once.

Jack and Art barreled through the gate, their horses racing past Bob, who ran toward Rita’s prone figure. Steve had the presence of mind to close the gate, but not before several calves had jumped on the opportunity to escape. I was the last one in the corral on horseback, and I had to shout for Steve to open the gate again before I could join the chase.

Rita was lying on her back several hundred yards from the corral. Her horse trotted off toward the river, stirrups flopping in all directions, reins dragging. Rita rolled over to her elbows and knees, trying briefly to pull herself to her feet, but she lowered herself to one side and rotated onto her back again.

Jack was the first to reach her, swinging down from his saddle before his horse even stopped. In fact, he was in such a hurry that his dismount pulled his horse to one side, and the horse nearly ran into Rita.

Art was right behind Jack, and by the time I got there, the two hunched over Rita, one on each side. Her face was pale, rimmed with sweat, and she held a palm flat against her side, at the base of her ribs. Her eyes were closed, clamped tight, and her teeth clenched, showing between her bloodless lips.

Jack and Art both held their hands helplessly in the air over Rita, as if they each wanted to touch her, heal her somehow, but weren’t sure where to start or what to touch. A mosquito settled onto Rita’s cheek, and in one of the most tender gestures I ever saw from him, Jack brushed the insect away, then pulled Rita’s hair from her forehead.

“You okay?” Jack asked.

“Where does it hurt?” Art asked simultaneously.

Rita sucked air through her clamped teeth and pointed at her side. “Right here.”

Art took off his shirt, rolled it up, and tucked it under Rita’s head,
inviting a cloud of mosquitoes to his bare arms. They even attacked his threadbare T-shirt. Jack unhooked Rita’s suspenders and carefully unbuttoned her dungarees. He pulled her shirt from inside her pants, then peeled it away from her stomach, watching her face. She winced, but not enough for him to stop. Despite the serious nature of the situation—the possibility that Rita could be suffering from broken ribs, or some internal injuries—my vision was captured by this show of flesh. I felt my face turn red.

Halfway up her side, red and raw, was a hoof print, horseshoe shaped. The skin was scraped, not enough to bleed, but it looked damn sore. Jack placed his palm against Rita’s forehead.

“You gonna be okay, sweetheart?”

She opened her eyes. “I think so. It hurts, though. It really hurts.”

The others, who had run from the corral, gathered around, panting, asking what had happened.

“Looks like she’s probably gonna have a few cracked ribs,” Art said. “But I think she’s all right other than that. You hurting anywhere else, Rita?”

She shook her head.

Looking at the raw spot made my side ache. “You think you can move?” I asked.

Rita’s eyes got wide just thinking about it. “Give me a minute,” she said.

“Well, it’s about time for lunch anyway,” Dad said, looking up at the sun. I could see he was thinking about the time we were losing. “We might as well all head back to the house when she’s feeling up to it. You want us to get the wagon, Rita, or you think you can make it on horseback?”

“Dad, please,” she said. “Just give me a minute. I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry, darling,” Dad said. “I’m getting way ahead of everything here.”

Jack continued to stroke Rita’s cheek, and I could see that Rita was
moved by this act. Lying there looking up at him, there was a softness in her gaze that was usually reserved for her boys. When a spasm rocked her, she reached out and grabbed Jack’s hand. I felt a pang of jealousy. Jack looked down at her hand, as if it was the first time he’d ever held one. He put it to his chest.

“Well, somebody’s got to catch those calves that got out,” I said. “Bob, you want to man the gate while I round them up?”

Bob nodded, starting toward the corral.

“I’ll give you a ride,” Art told Bob.

We made a dramatic entrance into the house, with Jack and Art supporting Rita by each arm, and the rest of us explaining in bursts what happened. They led Rita to Mom and Dad’s bedroom, and the accident brought out everyone’s fundamental desire to do the one thing that would be most helpful.

Gary suggested that his wife Trudy drive to Capitol to get the doctor.

“No, actually, one of you men should go, otherwise supper won’t get done in time,” Trudy said.

“If one of us goes, the branding won’t get done,” Dad said. “We can wait to eat if it comes to that, but we got to finish the branding today.”

“Maybe I should go,” Mom suggested. “Trudy, you’re right in the middle of making your bread. I wouldn’t want to ruin it. You seem to be the only one who can get it right.”

“No, no, no, Catherine,” Trudy insisted, waving her hand. “You won’t have any problem. A little more kneading, then it has to set for a couple hours. That’s all that’s left to do. I should go.”

Jenny Glasser, who was so quiet that when she did speak, everyone looked at her as though they’d forgotten she was in the room, made her offering. “Who’s going to watch Rita?”

“I’ll keep an eye on her,” Muriel said. “I can work on the pies and watch her too.”

That covered everything, and Trudy left to find Dr. Sorenson while the rest of us went about the business of lunch. As we sat eating, Rita suddenly appeared in the doorway, bracing herself against the wall. Jack was out of his chair in a flash.

“Sweetheart, what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m hungry,” she said. “I feel fine.” Sweat covered her forehead, and she had to brace herself against the door frame. She was completely white.

“We’ll bring you some food. You’ve got to stay in bed until the doctor gets a look at you,” Mom said. She started to rise from her chair, but Jack motioned for her to stay put.

Jack wrapped his arm around Rita and led her toward the bedroom.

“I think I’m okay,” Rita was saying. “I think I can go back to riding this afternoon.”

Jack chuckled. “Oh no you don’t.”

We could not hear the rest of their conversation, but Jack’s tone was insistent.

Steve sat shaking his head. “Who’d of thought someone from New Jersey would be the toughest one in this county?”

Mom prepared a plate for Rita and took it in to her. Mom and Jack came out talking quietly, their heads nearly touching. Mom had her hand in the crook of Jack’s elbow, a show of affection I hadn’t seen her show him in years.

We didn’t linger over lunch, knowing that we were already behind, and short one hand. We hurried back to the corral, and after a short discussion about who would take which job, we were back at it. One person had to man the gate and also do the tallying, and Jack volunteered. And as often happened, a near-tragedy brought our attention into a much tighter focus. We moved like one collective animal, with even the cattle seemingly in sync. The calves practically stuck their hooves in
front of our lassos and lay down on their own. None bolted from the corral all afternoon. And the mothers gathered against the planks, as if they’d conferred and agreed to stay out of our way.

We hardly spoke. The heat didn’t let up, nor did the mosquitoes, but those were the only nuisances of the afternoon. We not only finished, but we finished early. It was one of those rare, enchanted stretches of time when the world actually seemed like a pretty simple place.

The women were shocked to see us arrive back at the house, wearing smiles bigger than our faces and clapping each other’s back. Jack looked worried until we found out that Dr. Sorenson had determined that Rita probably had a few cracked ribs, but no internal damage.

Once Jack heard this, his shoulders relaxed. I felt the same relief, but more privately, of course. Jack started toward the bedroom, but Mom gripped his arm. “She just fell asleep.”

“All right,” he said. “Of course.”

We surrounded the table, which was soon covered with a huge beef roast, fried potatoes, fresh garden tomatoes, Trudy’s bread—straight from the oven—and a thick, dark skillet gravy. And for dessert—pies. Apple, mincemeat, and a luscious sour cream—raisin. We ate like demons, leaving hardly a scrap. And we laughed. We laughed at everything, especially after Dad broke out two bottles he’d asked Art to bring along. We rarely had liquor in our home, but this day was obviously charmed, and we filled our glasses generously, as if for this one evening we were invincible even to the effects of alcohol. But I noticed that Jack drained and refilled his glass much more frequently than anyone else did. About halfway through dinner, his eyelids began to droop.

“Here’s to the best damn neighbors in the county,” Dad said, raising his glass.

We all seconded the sentiment, draining our drinks with a synchronized tip of the glasses. We moved into the living room after dinner, filled to the brim with food, drink, and the satisfaction of a productive day.

“Are there any dances this weekend?” Trudy asked.

“Camp Crook is having one,” Bob answered.

“Is that Stillwell girl going to be there?” I asked Bob.

He gave me a hard look, blushed, and looked at his palms. “I wouldn’t know.”

“The Stillwell girl?” Steve asked, his lazy eye wandering. “You sweet on her, Bob?”

Bob rubbed his palms against his thighs. “Nah. I’m not sweet on anyone.”

“She’s pretty,” Jack said, his voice a little too loud.

“Smart, too,” Muriel added. “She was valedictorian when I was a freshman.”

“I’m not sweet on her,” Bob said, a little louder. He set his mouth in a straight line.

“Well, she’s a nice girl anyway,” Mom said. “Are you folks going?” she asked Glassers.

“Oh, you damn right,” Steve said. “You know I don’t miss a dance.”

“How about you?” Jack turned to Jenny, deliberately, with a sly grin. “Are you goin’?”

Jenny lowered her eyes, obviously uncomfortable with being addressed. It was a strange question considering Steve had just said they would be going, and Jack’s leering manner made it even more strange.

“’Course she’s going,” Steve said. “Jenny loves to dance.” We all knew otherwise, and we chuckled, trying to make light of the situation.

“Do you really like to dance, Jenny?” Jack leaned forward in his chair, moving a little closer to Jenny. His eyes were nearly closed now.

Jenny stood up. “I’m going to see how Rita’s doing.” She emphasized Rita’s name, looking directly at Jack. But Jack sank back into his chair, not the least put off, a dreamy grin on his face.

Steve got up and followed his wife to the bedroom. The rest of us
sat in that sort of uncomfortable silence that numbs the brain, the kind that makes you feel as though you never have and never will carry on an intelligent conversation. I sat wishing Jack would disappear, or fall asleep, embarrassed that he would be so insensitive when Rita was lying injured just two rooms away.

Dad finally brought us out of it. “You get bit today, Art?”

Art was just then scratching away at his back. “The little bastards made a meal of me, all right,” he said. “Left me just enough blood to keep me propped up in my saddle.”

“You wearing some kind of perfume?” I asked. “I can’t figure out why they all go for you.”

“It’s my pretty smile, I guess.” Art showed his half-toothless, no-jaw grin below his drooping mustache.

“I think that face would kill ’em before it would make ’em want to suck on you,” Jack mumbled, squinting at Art.

Art smiled and shook his head, making an obvious effort to believe Jack was kidding.

“Yep, you are a piece of work, Art.” Jack tilted his sleepy-eyed face toward Art, and his cruel tone changed our laughter into nervous chuckles. Art gave him a long look, but didn’t say a word. Steve and Jenny returned, and Jenny made a point of switching seats with Steve, who had been sitting further from Jack. Steve again tried to lighten the mood.

“Well, Rita’s looking good, getting her color back. That bruise is going to be nasty, though.”

Just then, Jack stood and left the room. We all breathed easier for a minute, thinking he was going to go look in on his wife. But he came back carrying a big fruit jar. The contents sloshed over the rim, and the smell of alcohol filled the room. And the seconds passed, and the tension built as Jack guzzled the drink, and we wondered whether he was going to do something more obnoxious than he already had, or if he would pass out before he had the opportunity. I gritted my teeth,
despising the fact that anyone could take a woman like Rita for granted the way my brother had for so many years. How he could claim to love her and then show such blatant disregard.

But the fear of provoking Jack kept me in my chair, my teeth clenched but my muscles tense, ready to spring if something unexpected happened. Like most of us in the room, I did not look at Jack, but kept him in the corner of my eye at all times.

Jack settled back into his seat and drank deeply, looking pleased with himself, and drunkenly unaware that his actions were causing so much discomfort. Mom got up, her face flushed, and went to the kitchen. The sounds of clattering dishes and running water echoed through the house. Jenny followed Mom. Then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, Jack stood and announced, “I guess I’ll give them a hand in there.”

It was the one and only time I remember Jack offering to help with the dishes, and I’m sure this occurred to everyone else in the room. I watched the stiff smile disappear from Steve’s face as Jack staggered toward the kitchen.