Look back across the years, and you will see us. See each moment as clear and self-contained as a raindrop before it hits the earth and merges into the undifferentiated mass of water on this wet planet.
There we are, forever young, flying across the prairie in a secondhand Buick, riding high on four new tires purchased at Pop’s insistence. Three Harvard boys on summer break, we are aware of but never thinking of the ragged farmer families staring down death by starvation somewhere out in the billowing, blinding clouds of dust.
Dusk is descending. All of us sit together in the wide front seat doing seventy along the endless gravel road, Arizona bound. We are on our way to spend the summer working at the Y Lightning, a genuine cattle ranch nestled in the foothills of the mile-high Huachuca Mountains. That’s me in the driver’s seat, full of the innocent arrogance I will never lose. Blame rolls off me like raindrops beading up and sliding off a yellow slicker.
Our heads are full of the pictures I have painted all year; we see ourselves riding fences, breaking horses, losing our collegiate selves in the heady stink of our own sweat. I can’t wait to pull back into Bisbee, show my greenhorn buddies where to outfit themselves with high-heeled western boots, Stetsons, and blue jeans.
“Now boys,” I say. “Remember, a good cowboy is part veterinarian and part handyman. The two most important things to be on the lookout for are sick calves and breaks in the fencing.”
With a noise like a thunderclap, the left front tire blows. I wrestle with the wheel for an instant and then we are somersaulting into a ditch, our bodies spilling out onto the ground as the Buick flies beyond us, landing right side up.
We are bruised a bit but the only thing broken is Bob’s glasses.
Tilden says, “Nothing hurts. Nothing hurts.”
The Buick limps into town, riding on the rims. We get a room, cursing our rotten luck; it could take days to fix up the sorry heap. Arizona shimmers on the horizon like a mirage. I fall asleep in my clothes, lacking the energy to even unlace my shoes.
A strange quiet wakes me. The moon is bright and full through the naked windowpane; Tilden is lit by its glow which lends him a beauty to which he has no honest claim. He is slumped in a chair, head lolling back, arms splayed out to the sides. My weariness pulls me back under.
At sunrise, Bob probes our friend’s cold wrist with his index and middle fingers, searching for the pulse that no longer beats beneath his skin.
Digby
Excellent.
Great theme. Funny and right on.
Pilgrim
For a moment there I thought it was all going to end up OK, but it was not to be. It is the tiny expressions, the little lilts in the writing that move this along, dense and intetesting.
panda65
I like this story very much. Great images and details. I love the phrase “to which he has no honest claim.”
Wendy Stivers
Amazing-great imagery. It feels like your right there with them.
oscarelizondo
Took me back awhile and it really let’s me feel like back within my roots. The way you wrote, seems like the way you spoke and it made a lot of sense to me. Love it.
asd25
Thank you for all the nice comments! This story was inspired by something that really happened to my grandfather when he was young. From that starting point I tried to create believable fictional characters and locate them in a time and place I never saw, except through my grandpa’s descriptions. It was an intense experience trying to get inside this tragic moment and I’m so pleased that you all liked it.
Fair2se3
i loved the righting i really thought that this was your experience keep doing what you love and thank you for sharing
ladyb
Beautifully written – stunning imagery.